Their Forbidden Love
by Aussie-Dumbass
Summary: Gharrok Broken-Blade, Stormcloak soldier is on a mission when he encounters a young Altmer woman. Her beauty instantly ensnares him and he falls head-over-heels in love with her. The only trouble, is that she's a Thalmor Justiciar. After saving her life from his comrades, they form an uneasy friendship, which eventually sparks to love, causing turmoil on both sides of the war...
1. Chapter 1: An Unlikely Meeting

Chapter One: An Unlikely Meeting

Gharrok Broken-Blade lay in the fresh powder snow, waiting for the signal. If the Intel from their spies was correct, a Thalmor escort would be passing through here at any minute. Gharrok was the only son of House Broken-Blade. Born and raised in Skyrim, he was there when Ulfric Stormcloak raised his banner in rebellion against the Empire. The young Nord had proven himself a capable warrior, and helped form the Nightblades: one of the best recon and ambush teams of the Stormcloak Rebels. If there was an Imperial or Thalmor convoy that could be stolen, they were there. If their shield-brothers and sisters were in trouble, the Nightblades would resupply them and reinforce.

"Chilly morning," A man said next to him. Ralof, one of Gharrok's closest friends, shivered as the snow continues to petal down. "Hope they arrive so, else my body freeze.

"You're just soft from spending all your time down south." Gharrok replied. He'd spend his youth climbing up Seven Thousand Steps with his father, delivering supplies to the Greybeards, and occasionally taking lessons in history in diplomacy. "Riverwood has had you a soft man."

"Say's the man with the tinier muscles than a goblin!" Their spies had told them that a large supply wagon heading to Whiterun was passing by Korvanjund, a shipment belonging to the Dominion. Gharrok heard a quick two-whistled tone, indicating that something was coming. The young Nords halted their banter and buried themselves deeper into the undergrowth. Gharrok hugged his cloak closer for concealment, and warmth. Despite his bragging, it was pretty damn cold.

His breathing was very light, with large gaps in between. There had been more than one occasion where an ambush had failed due to a sneeze, or someone's foggy breath being seen. As far as they had been told, there were going to be three wagons, with not that many guards, and so the plan was simple: Archers were hiding behind rocks and trees nearby. They would jump out, shoot as many as they could while the rest of the Nightblades charged in and took the remaining people. If it was possible, take home casualties, otherwise burn them and return the bones with their amulets and rings. An eerie five note song was whistled. Their target was approaching.

.

.

Gharrok unsheathed his war axe, Icefang. Originally his father's, this axe was one of the few things he had that reminded him of home. "Talos, I pray for your guidance," he mumbled, praying to the legitimate Divine. "I ask that my feet be fast and my aim true. I live serving you, and if I die here today, may they sing Songs of me in Sovengarde…" There was another whistle song. Four long, low notes. That was the signal to count to ten, and then attack…

Ten… _This is for Ulfric…_ Nine… _Skyrim belongs to the Nords…_ Eight… _This is for my family…_ Seven… _They will songs of me in the afterlife!_...Six… _My little sister will know what it's like not to live in fear!_ Five… _The Broken-Blade name will live on forever by my actions…_ Four… _My village will be safe because of my struggles…_ Three… _All off Skyrim will be free…_ Two… _This is OUR homeland!_ One… _AND WE WILL FIGHT FOR OUR FREEDOM!_ Gharrok heard the twang of the first arrows being loosed as he burst from the snow, throwing of his cloak and picking up his shield.

"Skyrim belongs to the Nords!" He bellowed, charging onto the road and into the Thalmor swords…

.

.

.

Gharrok charged straight at a Justiciar and a swordsman. The mage reeled back and fell dead to the ground, choking on an arrow. Magic robes were no match for steel arrows! The Nord blocked a strike with his shield and sidestepped the swordsman, before burying his axe into his side. Gharrok had been killing Elves and the Empire's soldiers for almost a year now, he knew all the weak points in Elvish Armour

To finish his victim off he punched him with his shield with such force it broke his neck. The front most wagon, driven by a scraggy Breton, charged ahead, desperate to escape. Gharrok had planned for this, and a Nordic battlemage, a rare sight since the Thirty Years War, as most of them had died in Cyrodiil, summoned flame atronach. The flaming, demonic woman barred the way, scaring the already terrified horses by setting the road ablaze. This Nightblades fought on, but there were many more elves than anticipated. Gharrok had planned for ten or twelve, but this was more than double that. He took a moment to drink a healing potion when his friend slumped down next to him, taking cover from the Elven archers.

"Drinking on the job? I'm disappointed," the Nord joked.

"Funny Ralof," Gharrok mumbled. "Got a slash to the arm, need this. What about you?" Ralof didn't answer, rather bracing for a frost atronach lumbering towards them. It brought down both of it's mighty arms to skewer them, but Ralof was ready, cleaving through the magical ice with his battleaxe.

"Now, before it regenerates!"

The pair moved in synchronization, like petals flowing down a stream. Gharrok rolled underneath the atronach's retaliation, trying to bludgeon him with its now shortened arms.

 _When fighting a frost atronach, you can easily outmaneuver it._ His father had always taught him. _Get behind it and go for the joints between each limb, then destroy the core._

Gharrok did just that. The icy hinges between the huge body and limbs were no harder than sinew, and Icefang, true to her name, bit through them as if they were no harder than a skeever's tail. With only it's huge body still moving, Ralof buried his weapon into the monster's head, and the atronach dissipated back into whatever realm of Oblivion it came from. Ralof gave a curt nod and rushed back into the fray. Gharrok took a quick breath, right before a spike of ice shattered into the wagon, only inches from his face.

"Hey, watch where you're-!" Gharrok couldn't finish his sentence, as his eyes were bewitched by the sorceress that cast at him…


	2. Chapter 2: Nordic Healing

Chapter 2: Nordic Healing

Almost like he was a dog, Gharrok shook the thawing ice shards from his long blonde locks, turning to the mage that cast the spell in his direction. The sight that filled his eyes was one that would stay in his memories to his last breath. A young woman, probably not older than twenty-three. Her skin was the tone of an Altmer's, yet her body shape was not. She was small and lithe, with long, flowing, pale golden brown hair. Instead of having a long and pointed head and face, hers was rounded and attractive. Thin yet full lips were pulled back to show a full row of perfect teeth, bared ferociously in combat. The High Elf woman's iris' shone a hundred hues of the sun, and her pupils were black as ebony.

' _Dibella, she's beautiful…'_ Gharrok thought, stunned by the woman. Then she started to move, Gharrok's world resuming from its slowed state. She wielded a dagger of refined malachite in a backwards fashion, hacking and slashing wildly at his Stormcloak comrades. In her free hand was a constantly changing cycle of spells: Healing, ice spike, flames and sparks, and conjuring atronach and familiars. This mysterious woman planted her knife into the chest of one of his squad, yet all he could think was how beautiful she was. The other Stormcloaks backed away cautiously from her, seeing how she had already brought down some of their comrades. She turned towards Gharrok, their eyes meeting for the first time. The Nord felt as if his heart was going to leap out of his chest. The snowflakes seemed to reflect every speckle of sunlight, making her look even more radiant than she was. His cheeks went red, and a grin started to grow on his face. Tucking his axe into his belt, he waved at her.

"What in Oblivion is he doing?" someone hissed, many eyes on the pair, All the other Thalmor were either dead or had yielded, yet this lioness fought on. The woman also smiled meekly, waving slightly.  
"Are they-?" A woman asked, watching the She-Elf sheath her dagger. Gharrok was about to drop his shield and say hello, when her smile turned to a snarl, and launched a storm of lightning bolts at him. Gharrok barely had time to raise his shield before his face became a charred mess. The she-elf was too focused on trying to kill Gharrok that she didn't notice Ralof sneaking up behind her and smash her the back of her skull with the pommel of his axe.

"Got the bitch!" he roared in delight as she collapsed limply to the ground. Gharrok couldn't help but wince in sympathy, looking over his shield.

.

.

There were seven of their enemy remaining by the end of the fight. The three wagons the Nightblades had ambushed contained greater loot than they'd hoped. Advanced spell tomes, weapons, high quality steel, and more importantly, reports on Thalmor movements in Skyrim.

"Turns out that these pale-skins were going to set up a base in Whiterun," Ralof grunted, dumping a crate of ingots onto one of the wagons.

"We lost a wagon though," Gharrok nodded to the side of the path. One of the wagon drivers tried to escape and was run of the road. All was well for the caravan, except for a broken wheel. "What about casualties?" Gharrok asked, passing a sack of potatoes to a comrade packing the loot onto their horses.

"Seven," Ralof answered sadly. "Lost a lot of good men today. Mostly to that bitch, too!" The Nord glowered at the female Justiciar, now tied up and gagged. She was only beginning to regain consciousness.

"That's war, Snow-Hammer." Gharrok counseled, kneeling down next to the fallen soldiers. It pained him to even think of such a thing to say. These were good friends of his, lying dead in front of him. Most of them weren't even soldiers. One was an ex-Imperial soldier, and another a mercenary, but the others? They were farmers. Stablemen. Hunters. This was what this Rebellion was doing. Forcing regular civilians into battle, just to protect their way of life, and it disgusted Gharrok. "Pray for them, but do not mourn yet." He put his hand on Ralof's shoulder, seeing the tears of anger well up in his eyes. "Look at the men. Yes, they cry. But we can not."

"And why's that!?" Ralof hissed. "We're people too!"

"The only time a leader can cry is when it's all over." Another one of the many lessons Gharrok's father had taught him. "Until then, we have to keep a smile on our faces to inspire the men." It took a few moments for that to settle in the Riverwood man's head, but he instantly understood. If they cried now, in front of their men _and_ their enemies, they'd look weak. Not an image they'd want to portray. "Think only of how many lives we are we going to save with these supplies. The men and women who gave the ultimate sacrifice here will not in vain!" Gharrok almost shouted the last two sentences so that the Nightblades could hear him. "I've no doubt that they're already in Sovengarde, their songs being sung in it's halls, drinking with the likes of Talos and Ysgramor, waiting for us to join them!" The men and women cheered, encouraged by his words. "Put our fallen in bags, we're taking them home." Almost immediately, a couple of women set to placing the bodies on huge sacks they'd brought for taking home casualties. Ralof was the official leader of the team, but it was Gharrok who ran the operation: he was the one who planned the strategies, communicated with spies, led the men into battle. The Nightblades considered him the true leader.

"Thank you, Broken-Blade." Ralof slapped his friend on the shoulder. "On the double, we should be out of here and in Windhelm by sundown!"

"Leave the spare body bags," Gharrok put in, only to receive looks of confusion from all sides, Thalmor and Stormcloak alike. "I'll deal with the remaining Elves, you all get going."

.

.

Gharrok waited until all of the Nightblades were out of sight, the body bags laying at the feet of the bound and gagged Thalmor. Gharrok waited for a few moments, deciding to take of their gags.

"If you're going to kill us already, snow back!" Gharrok took the racist slur in stride, counting the number of bags they had and dead Thalmor.

"Who's wounded here?" The Elves remained silent, glaring at him venomously, wanting to tear him limb from limb. One of them, a foot soldier, looked like already had one foot in the grave. Pale and shivering, Gharrok spotted him almost instantly, looking at his bleeding shoulder.

"Let me see your wound," Gharrok said in a calming tone, approaching the Mer. The elf reeled back and cursed at him in his native tongue. Gharrok tried again, Slower, gingerly removing the chest and shoulder plates of his leather armour to inspect the wound. The shattered remains of an arrow's shaft protruded out of the cold body, a the skin around the hole turning blue, as well as the blood trailing out. Gharrok grimaced, opening a small pack tied to his side. The captain and second in command of squads were given

first-aid kits. Though they were to be used only of their own kind, if he didn't help the lad he'd die. Selecting a small pair of tongs, he heated them up in a ball of flame he conjured, and looked at the injured Elf.

"S-s-stay back, Nord scum!" The soldier squeaked, his eyes darting for an escape route.

"Please be calm. If that arrowhead stays in there, it'll get infected and kill you. Try to be still..." Gharrok, knowing that this wasn't going to be an easy process, kicked his knees from under him and straddled the squirming elf. Gharrok opened the wound with his fingers, causing the elf to grimace in pain.

"You don't look like an Altmer," Gharrok said, obviously trying to distract him. "Where you from?"

"I'm not, I'm Bosmer. And I'm from Val-Valenwood. From Elden Wood, to the south."

"The capitol? You're a long way from home, friend," Gharrok nodded, finding the head of the arrow. "I'm going to pull the arrowhead out now. This will be painful." The Bosmer's screams filled the cold Middas air, much to the torment of his Thalmor friends.

"...Got it!" Gharrok panted, discarding the whole head and placed it in the snow. Gharrok took of one of his gloves and wiped up the trail of blood oozing from the puncture. It was cold, freezing even. He put his tongue to the liquid, before spitting it out. The Bosmer used this opportunity to wriggle out of the hold and roll away.

"Don't touch me again, filthy Nord!" He growled, much to the pleasure of his comrades. The young woman looked on in silence, quietly observing the Nord's actions. "I'll have you know that I'm-"

"I don't give two shits who you are." Gharrok snapped. "That arrow was dipped in frostbite venom. I need to treat it now or you're going to freeze to death from the inside out, either that or your heart explodes..." Despite the fact that Wood Elves had a natural resistance to poison, the venom was already taking affect, the Bosmer could feel it. He had no choice.

"Do what you must..." The Bosmer sighed, submitting to the 'punishment' of a Nord's help. Gharrok pulled a small bottle from his pack, and rubbed it into the wound, before handing it to him.

"Drink this. It's an antivenin that'll fix you up good." Gharrok took off his other glove and cupped his hands, a small light appearing in his hands. Pressing the light into the wound, the soldier groaned in both pain and pleasure. "Divines, that feels good!"

"You… know healing magic?" An old Altmer Justiciar asked. It was a rare sight to see a Nord who knew magic. Most of their kind detested the arcane arts.

"Not all of us are as barbaric as you think," Gharrok flashed him a toothy grin. "Now how's about we get those binds off and we can send you home?"


	3. Chapter 3: A Helping Hand

Chapter 3: A Helping Hand

Gharrok pulled his dagger from his belt and put it to the Bosmer's bindings. "If I let you go, you're not gonna eat me?" The question was both friendly, yet deadly serious. Wood Elves were carnivorous, and were fond of eating other humanoids, even cannibalizing in some situations.

"Watch your tongue!" A Thalmor soldier spat. "Do you have any idea who you're talking to? That's-"

"It's alright," the Bosmer silenced his companion. "I'm not hungry for tough, rotten meat today."

"Funny sod, ain't ya?" Gharrok grumbled as he cut through his bindings. "Now remember something, Elves. I'm sparing you today. Can I trust you not to kill me as soon as I turn my back?"

"It wouldn't be worth the magica lost," The elven woman mumbled, looking away from his face. Some of the other Elves hooted and spat similar jeers, but Gharrok ignored it, dropping a knee by one of the fallen Thalmor.

"May you find peace in Arkay's light." The Nord prayed, closing his glassed over eyes and pushing his legs into a large sack.

"What are you doing!? The Bosmer gasped, trying to pull Gharrok away. "Stop this heinous blasphemy at once!" Gharrok shrugged the smaller Mer off, the corpse now waist deep in the hessian. The Wood Elf redoubled his efforts, punching Gharrok in the back of the head.

"Elf, I'm trying to do you a favour here…" Gharrok growled, closing the bag and carrying it so the other elves could see it. "Today you can collect your fallen, so that you may return them to their families."

.

.

This shocked everyone in attendance, even Gharrok, truth be told.

' _What in Shor's name am I doing?'_ He thought as those words left his lips. _"I should just kill them now and be done with it! Then I-'_

"That is very admirable," The leader, an older Justiciar announced, derailing his train of thought. "You have my respect, perhaps you Nords _can_ eventually become as civilised as us…" This made Gharrok laugh, and he cut the old Mer's bindings loose.

"We're just as civilised, Elf. Just in our own way." Gharrok cut the remaining bound Elves, taking the massive risk of them killing him now they were free. Luckily, they didn't immediately jump on the Nord and tear him limb from limb, yet they were wary of him, keeping their distance and spitting at his feet. Gharrok ignored them, knowing that if he were in their boots, he'd be doing the same. Gharrok finally came to the young woman, who still looked away from him, blatantly ignoring him. Gharrok's cheeks tingled, a light tinge of pink shining through. The Nord blamed it on the cold, but was it really just that? She was very pretty, gorgeous even. The way the sun hit her eyes, and her hair flowed with each little movement of her slender neck, it sent shivers down his spine.

' _If Ralof ever heard that I though a pale-skin was pretty, I'd never hear the end of it!'_ Gharrok couldn't help but stare at her. She looked up at him impatiently, tugging at her bindings. Their eyes locked, trapped in the nexus of colours and

light that shone between them. The Nord's cheeks went a tinge of red, and he smiled a little at her. The she-elf gasped and looked away again, her brow furrowing. It was obvious that she was blushing too, though she tried to hide it. Gharrok gently slipped the knife between her wrists and gently pulled back, severing the bindings. The girl looked at him again, before walking off, rubbing her hands…

.

.

"Get that wagon back on the road and fix that wheel," Old Mer ordered his subordinates, who were rubbing the blood back into their wrists. "Double time! Nord, help them!" Gharrok followed the elves, trudging through the snow straight for the horses. The two beasts were in a frenzy, snorting and bucking wildly

"Hey… Gharrok cooed, cautiously approaching the beasts, slowly reaching up and gently stroking the mane, trying his best to calm the beast. "You're okay, there's nothing to be afraid of." Of course, it was a horse and it couldn't understand Nedic. The Bosmer approached the other stead and placed his hands on its long face. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, a pulse emitted from the Elf's hand, and instantly the horse was calm.

"How did you-"

"Wood Elves have the ability to talk to animals, and control them if we so desire, I'm calming these two down,"

Gharrok only nodded in admiration for the strange abilities that many Mer kind possessed. No wonder they thought themselves superior to the rest of us. With powers like that, they'd crush us.

.

.

It was a strange sight to witness: Thalmor, and a Stormcloak working together! The Bosmer unstrapped the now calmed horses and guided them back to the path, while the Nord, obviously the strongest there, helped push the cart back onto the road while the Thalmor Justiciars melted the snow to ease the struggle.

"On the count of three. One. Two. Threeeee!" Gharrok groaned, lifting the entire back half of the wagon by himself. The Elves managed to kick of the broken wheel and slotted in the functioning one.

"Why are you doing this?" The older Justiciar asked as his subordinates started carrying the corpses of their friends onto the cart. "We're enemies. You had the opportunity to kill us and be done with it."

' _Why DID I do that?'_ Gharrok thought. _'They are my enemies, and if I fancied the girl, I could have just had her after I'd slit her throat! So why didn't I…?'_

"We may be on the opposite sides of the war, but that doesn't mean that we have to be enemies." Gharrok finally answered. "I don't want to kill you, or anyone."

"Then why fight?" The old man crossed his arms, genuinely interested.

"Because I'm fighting so my family can be safe. Skyrim is a cruel, harsh land, but it is vary beautiful too." As if Kynareth was watching over him, the clouds parted, revealing the midday sun to warm their backs, as well as the birds emerging from the trees. "If a foreign peoples, like you Elves ruled Skyrim, it would be the end of us all. You must tame the land, or you perish. All I want is peace, nothing more."

"Your intentions are noble, Nord." The Wood Elf grunted, slumping another body on the cart. "But it won't do good against an arrow."

"Neither will your leather armour against an axe." Gharrok patted Icefang, just to warn him to stay in line. "It's smaller things like this that will eventually lead to peace."

"What makes you say that?" Bosmer retorted. "There won't be peace with barbarians like you!"

"Eladän!" The Justiciar snapped. "This man saved your life, twice, if I'm not mistaken! Show some respect." Gharrok shrugged it off, as he was once like that. When he first joined the Rebellion, Gharrok hated the very thought of Imperials and Elves in Skyrim, but his father and other teachers lessons soon sunk in, about wars and how the soldiers fighting were really only following orders. It wasn't personal, mostly.

"All I want is for peace Elves, I hope you can say the same." As the last corpse was thrown on to the pile, Gharrok fingered his amulet to Talos, hidden under his shirt. "May they find rest in Sovengarde."

"May their souls rest in Aetherius, in Arkay's light." The woman mumbled, giving them the correct blessing, as if to nullify Gharrok's. he smiled, but his face almost split when he realized the situation he was in.

.

.

"Seven Thalmor, two of which are Justiciars, versus one Stormcloak soldier. Is this the part where you get the jump on me and take me back to that embassy of yours to _question_ me?" Gharrok said the question in a joking tone, but he was ready to bolt at a second. Either that or cut them down. There was no way in Oblivion he'd end up at that monstrous Embassy. The rumours that spilled from that place chilled him.

"Why would I do that?" Old Mer asked, smiling a little, yet still very reserved. "All I see here is a very helpful local. I can not remember his garbs." An audible sigh of relief whooshed out of the Nord's lungs, and he flashed them a toothy grin.  
"I thank you, Elves. I would advise that you turn your wagon the other wat and head for Dawnstar. That is the nearest Imperial controlled city, if you were to turn up to Whiterun beaten and bloodied, as you are, they'd turn you around.

You should fine a friendly boat there, since the Empire controls that port. For now, at least…"

"I doubt you Stormcloaks could even take a tiny town like that!" The Wood Elf joked, helping his living comrades up onto the cart. "What is your name, stranger? Are you employed by one of the Houses? I'll be sure to repay your masters if you do!" Gharrok was not employed by a House, rather he was the _heir_ to a House. Not one of the Greater Houses, but still one that people respected and listened to. But should he really tell them his name? No doubt the Thalmor were aware of who House Broken-Blade were, and his fathers actions in the past. "If we are ever to meet again, I will be sure to repay the favour!" Many of the other Elves nodded in agreement, as if trying to leech out that information. Such an agreement would be useful in the battlefield, but what if they tracked his name back to Ivarstead? His sister could become a target for the Justiciars. He'd have to warn his father to stay alert.

"Actually, Bosmer, I _am_ part of a House. I am Gharrok, of House Broken-Blade." The older Justiciar and the woman let out an audiable gasp, trying magic spells flickering in their hands. Seeing this, the other soldiers leapt of the cart, ready to beat the Nord to a pulp.

"So you're one of them!" Eladän roared, reaching up and grabbing Gharrok by the cuffs. The Nord tried to resist, drawing Icefang, but another Elf restrained his hands. "You were there in Markarth! You're one of Ulfric's militia in the Incident!"

"What the fuck are you talking about? That was my father, Roland Broken-Blade! Do I honestly look like I'm old enough to have been in the Markarth Incident?"

The Elves looked to their leader, as like a dog waiting for they master to say that they could kill their prey.

"We can't hurt him," The Old man shook his head. "He falls under the Skaal-Empire Pact." When Solstheim was given to the Dark Elves to escape from the Red Mountain erupting, the Empire wrote the Skaal-Empire Pact, an order that allowed all native Skaal of Solstheim and their direct families free access to travel Tamriel, and they were not allowed to be put under arrest for unless they were tried by the Skaal Elders. "That's a bullshit rule, if you ask me."

"I'd say the same about the White Gold Concordant," Gharrok snapped back, unbuckling one of the horses from the cart, sliding of the collar and crupper from the steed. "Remember what I did here today, Elves. Not all of us want to fight you. I, for one, welcome foreigners, and despise Ulfric's barbarianism.

"I will be sure to remember your name and face, Gharrok of House Broken-Blade, it has been a pleasure. I am Eladãn," The Wood Elf nodded in respect. "Thank you for your help." The Nord got one last look at the woman, who looked as if she were mumbling something, yet he couldn't hear it. Soon enough, they were gone, headed back to Dawnstar. Gharrok thumbed his amulet while he mounted the remaining horse and galloped away, going to catch up with the rest of the Nightblades…


	4. Chapter 4: Misson Briefing

Chapter 4: Mission Briefing

It had been weeks since that raid involving the Thalmor, yet Gharrok could not stop thinking about it.

 _Why did I let them go? Why did I help them?_ Thoughts and reflections of his actions drove the Nord wild, keeping him up all hours of the long cold nights.

"I just don not understand," Gharrok said in the confession box, one quiet afternoon in the Temple of Talos. "Why did I do it? Or, why did I _not_ do it?"

"Perhaps you are getting soft?" The female voice chuckled on the other side.

"Very funny Jora, but I came here for your counsel."

"I do not know what to say, my child. You are a Nord of Skyrim, and a Stormcloak soldier. You fight for Skyrim and her independence, that means that you must kill her enemies."

"So are you saying that I should have executed them?" Gharrok ran a hand through his golden-blonde locks, down the single braid that rested on his shoulder.

"Not necessarily," the priestess said. "You actions were noble, and honourable, that is something a Nord always aims to be. You would make Talos proud." Gharrok sighed, leaning back in his chair, thumbing the sharp edge of Icefang.

"No one else knows of my deeds, and I plan to keep it that way. If Galmar Stone-Fist found out, I would surely be hung from the city gates!"

"Child, there is nothing I can say that could change the past. Now you must live with the consequences. Yes, you did help the enemy. You had the chance to kill them with ease, yet you could not. You wanted a challenge? Or perhaps a favour from the Thalmor? I am unsure." Gharrok sighed and left the box, and so did the priestess.

"Maybe… maybe they're not as evil and malevolent as we once thought. Should that thought hold true, there would be a chance at peaceful negotiations!"

"Absolutely not! Not while they decline the existence of the true Divine!" Gharrok nodded, knowing deep down that such a pipedream would be nigh impossible. The Rebellion was only going to escalate, and already, the Stormcloaks and Empire were calling all the Great and Lesser Houses to arms. There were few that sat on the fence, and those that did were harrowed to take a side. Gharrok flicked a Septim into the offering bowl and draped his fur cloak over his back.

"Thank you for your counsel,"

"You are more than welcome, Gharrok Broken-Blade. Please stay alive, I'd hate to lose such an avid worshipper!"

"Talos be with you,"

"And you as well…" Gharrok shivered at the freezing snow filled air that was almost constant in Eastmarch. The young Nord decided to head over to Candlehearth Hall and get a drink. Might as well have some fun in the big city, despite the coldness…

.

.

Gharrok sat away from the fire, looking out a frost covered-window, replaying the whole event in his mind for the umpteenth time. There had been events like that ambush countless times before, Prisoners at their mercy. Gharrok remembered how the Nords were given a chance to defer to the Rebellion, otherwise they were put to the sword. Perhaps it was the woman? In all his years, Gharrok had never seen a more beautiful woman.

' _What was she trying to say before they left? Her name? Was she thanking me?'_ Gharrok sipped at his Honningbrew Mead and leant back in his chair. He had not written home in a few weeks, and no doubt his family was concerned.

.

 _Dearest family,_ The letter started.

.

 _I hope you are all well. My exploits across Skyrim have been many, yet I dream every night of the warmth of the Rift. Though my role in the Rebellion may not be as significant as Jarl Ulfric's, or General Tullius', it is nevertheless critical to our success._ _The war effort goes well, and though my skirmishes may not be the most honourable, or heroic, are still turning the tide of this war in our favour! My estimates guess that by the eve of Last Seed, I shall return home a rich and victorious man!_ _News has reached me that people are beginning to consider Father the Jarl of Ivarstead! This amused me greatly, though I doubt_ _Laila Law-Giver would approve. The next time I am in Riften I shall visit her, as our family has strong bonds with hers. I have kept Icefang in the finest condition possible, clean and well oiled! When I return home she will retake her place above the hearth with father's sword!_

 _._

 _Meela, my dear sister. It breaks my heart that I can not return to see you for some time. However, Even far away I can still help you in your lessons! You wrote last that you were having trouble with how to distinguish a Greater House from the other Houses. The easy way to remember this is that the Greater Houses are the ones who control the Holds. House Stormcloak, House Low-Giver, and House Torygg are examples of this. The other Houses are the ones such as our House, House Broken-Blade, are honoured and wealthy families who hold influence, but do not hold a seat of power. Some other examples of this are House Black-Briar, House Grey-Mane, and House Free-Winter._

 _._

 _You wrote also that you adopted a skeever pinkie? I hope you take care of it! Just remember a few things. You MUST train it, otherwise people will think it's wild and exterminate her. A good way to prevent this it to put a collar on it, to show they are tame. You must also bath them AT LEAST every three days. Skeevers get into all sorts of trouble and mess, and their fur gets filthy, we don't want to start an epidemic, now do we? MAKE A DREY FOR IT TO SLEEP IN! I cannot emphasise this enough, skeevers will make anywhere they find home, from your bed, to a cooking pot, to our neighbours house! They can get territorial as well, so it's best if they sleep in a single place from birth so they are trained. If I find out that it's made my room it's house, or taken any of my belongings, I'll throw it of the waterfall!_

.

There were others on the top level, quietly enjoying the afternoon. Captain Lonley-Gale was drinking with Brunwulf Free-Winter, and Stenvar and Rolff Stone-Fist were giving one of the Dunmer waitresses a hard time. The young Nord would've intervened, but in his Stormcloak cuirass, it would have been hypocritical. Instead, he hopped up and asked her for some dried meat, severing the contact between her, and the attackers. Gharrok was handed some from the quiet woman, he thanked her and whispered, "You are not alone, my dear. I shall protect you if they give you trouble." The maid smiled and thanked him, but he knew that she was competent enough to defend herself from some drunken Nords. Such was the life of a Dunmer in Windhelm. Gharrok sat back down in his chair and continued to write.

.

 _Mother, every second that I am not home breaks my heart, and I hear your laughter and feel your arms around me in every dream I have. I know that you do not wish for me to fight in this war, but surely you must know by now WHY I fight. Though I may not be by law, from Skyrim, this is my home. Skyrim deserves to be free and independent from the Empire and the Dominion, as it has been for Eras!_

.

Again, he had no idea why he had helped the Dark Elf. The Mer were supposed to be his enemy, so why was he helping them left right and centre? In all honesty though, he didn't have a problem with foreigners in his homeland. All he wanted from this war was free worship, and independence from the Empire and the Dominion. Hopefully if all goes well in the war, that may happen…

' _Gods, if I ever spoke aloud like that, I would be thrown out of the Nightblades in an instant,'_ Gharrok thought, scratching at his stubble. _'I shan't be going soft, can I?'_

 _._

 _However, I urge you to convince father to increase the security of Ivarstead. Though it may be deep in the Rift, which is strong Stormcloak territory, that fact alone will not stop Imperial scouts, or Thalmor spies, or worse. I often have nightmares about bandits marauding through the village and slaughtering my people. What he has done since being given the duty of taking care of the Stead is commendable enough. Placing in nets and a water barrier system to prevent slaughterfish from hunting near the village and to stop people and their belongings from going over the falls was ingenious. I will write to Jarl Ulfric to ask if I may respite for a time, to return to you. That aside, perhaps it is time to increase the village's defences? A gated wall, and more guards posted from Riften? Perhaps even a watchtower or two! I will be happy to use my salary and the profits from my investments to help fund the effort!_

 _._

The next section of the letter he wrote in his father's native tongue, Skaalish. It was a very difficult language to learn, and few who were not natives could master the difficult dialect. Speaking it was took years to master, and reading the language took a lifetime unless you knew the secrets. Luckily, Gharrok learnt it as his first language, and knew that all secret messages for his father were safe.

.

 _Father, though my previous words may bring joy to you all, most of them are nothing more than lies. This war is spiralling further and further out of control. More people, CIVILIANS, whom have no experience in the arts of warfare, are joining the fight, only to be slaughtered. I have seen it time and time again, both with Stormcloak Rebels and Imperial militia. I know that you said that you would have no part in this conflict, but even that affects all of us. You not doing anything is helping the enemy. I beg of you, in the name of Talos and the All-Maker, join the effort! I understand that you are too old to fight on the field, but do what you can! Join Ulfric's consul, or train the farm boys and orphans to wield a blade before they get themselves killed! House Broken-Blade may not be a Great House, but because of your efforts and skills back in your adventuring days (and my recent investments with the Black-Briars and Silver-Bloods), the Jarls of Skyrim would listen to you if you held their audience! This fighting must stop! Negotiate a treaty, or a ceasefire!_

 _._

Gharrok placed his quill aside, taking a moment to meditate on what to write next. He knew he would have to tell Roland Broken-Blade about the raid. If not him, then who else?

.

 _You once said that to kill a man was the hardest thing that you could do. For a while I thought you were correct, and the first couple of months of fighting were horrendous. I would barely eat I was so sick, and sleep eluded me because of the weight of my guilt was too much to bear. But as the fighting has gone on, I am starting to become immune to the sickness and guilt. I only feel the pain of my wounds, no longer the stabbing guilt of the family whose lives I have ruined by hacking down their husbands, fathers, sons, or brothers. I feel as if the Adversary, the All-Maker's foe, is starting to steal my soul, as he has stolen our gifts fro the All-Maker time and time again._

 _._

 _Not more than a month ago, the Nightblades were tasked with ambushing a Thalmor escort near_ _Korvanjund. It was an absolute slaughter. Only minor injuries sustained by our men, but nearly forty dead Elves. I was tasked with executing the survivors, but I could not do it. My actions were traitorous to the Stormcloaks, and would see me hanged if the news were to reach Ulfric or Galmar. Not only did I set them free, but I treated tended to their wounds, and helped them on their way to an Imperial controlled city. My actions have been haunting me since then, not out of guilt, but bewilderment as to WHY I did that? I knew I could have killed them with ease and been done with it, but why didn't I? Perhaps it was the All-Maker staying my hand? Maybe it was your teachings? Did the lessons from the Greybeards resonate to me? There…there was a woman there. An Altmer, more beautiful than any lass I have ever laid my eyes on. If I wanted her, I could have just cut her throat and had my way with her body! I am confused, and need your counsel, father. Please write back soon, before I do something that could cost me greatly than these stirred emotions._

 _._

 _Your son,_

 _Gharrok, of House Broken-Blade_

.

Once the Nord had finished the letter, he sealed it with the sigil of his House: the Skaalish for the All-Maker, a never-ending knot that formed a circle, triangle, and square all at once.

"Courier!" he called, stomping downstairs. Almost instantly, a Breton runner was before him. "Take this to Roland, of House Broken-Blade, in Ivarstead."

"Gharrok Broken-Blade?" A voice asked, tapping him on the shoulder.

"Hm? That's me," The name owner answered, Turning to see who had asked for his attention. A lass, probably not even sixteen, yet she wore a Stormcloak Cuirass. That only went to show the his message of people throwing their lives away so willingly without a chance of survival…

"Galmar Stone-Fist sent for you, you've been given an assignment." Gharrok nodded, paid his tab, and followed the lass up to the Hall of the Kings.

.

.

"Glad you could make it," Galmar Stone-Fist's rough, husky voice croaked as the Nightblade entered the strategy room. "Always good to see you again, pup."

"And you as well!" Gharrok smiled, shaking the old Nord's hand. Galmar and Gharrok's father had been shield-brothers for many years, well before the Markarth Incident. "Kynareth certainly has not been kind with today's weather, how your old body can keep its form eludes me!"

"You Rift-men are all milk drinkers, the lot of you!" Galmar laughed, slapping Gharrok on the shoulder. "Look here, I have something for you. Something just for you!."

"But Ralof is the Snow-Hammer of the Nightblades," Gharrok pointed out, his friend having the higher rank and usually got the mission briefings. "I am just a Bone-Breaker.""Aye, but we've been looking at our troop movements," Galmar pointed to a large map on the table, small red and blue flags stabbed into certain points. Most of the map was red, but the blues had a strong foothold in Eastmarch and The Rift. "Our territory isn't expanding any quicker, despite our best efforts. That's why Jarl Ulfric has been constructing a plan."

"And I assume my family name is going to be a poker chip in this plan?"

"Yes, but also your skill. The problem is that we don't have a good enough hold on the western side of Skyrim. We need the Reach." Gharrok raised a suspicious eyebrow, thumbing Icefang, as if her chilling edge was a way to centre him. Gharrok knew that the last tie Ulfric tried to take Markarth, it ended up a disaster, dozens dead or imprisoned.

"But Stormblade, to lay siege to Markarth would be a suicide mission!" Gharrok stated, using Galmar's correct rank to show respect and not fall out of line. "You know for yourself what Ulfric had to do to secure Markarth the last time he stormed those gates, you were there! His actions will sully his House's name for Eras!"

"Watch your tongue!" Galmar roared, baring his teeth and holding the younger Nord by his cuffs. "What Ulfric did was because of the desperate situation! He had no choice but to do what he did, and I wouldn't hesitate to do it again. I'd follow him into Oblivion and back!"

' _Still, murdering innocent civilians, and CHILDREN…'_ Gharrok thought, knowing it wise not to say that.

"What I was saying, is that at the moment, we don't have the strength to besiege a city as strong as Markarth," Gharrok continued, putting the table between the pair. "We don't have the manpower or resources for that kind of assault! And what of the Forsworn? They hate us Ulfric more than anyone else in Tamriel! What would stop them from sneaking into the city and cutting our throats while we sleep?" A smug grin spread across Galmar's face, and he took a swig from a tankard sitting on the table.

"That's where you come in. We can't take the city by force, so we'll go in through politics. Make the people hand the city over to us."

"And… how do we do that?"

"The Silver-Bloods," Galmar answered, picking up a silver ingot that lay near where Markarth sat on the map. "They openly declare that they think that Jarl Ulfric is right, but they cannot support us openly while the Thalmor and Imperial loyalists walk the streets." Gharrok knew that to openly support the Stormcloaks in such a situation would be a death wish, even for one of the wealthiest families in Skyrim. "And that boy, is where we play the Broken-Blade chip. You'll be leading a squadron of Ice-Veins and setting up a base for operations inside the city. Go undercover, Let the Silver-Bloods know that we want to help them, and flush out the Thalmor."

"What about the city guards?" Gharrok scoffed. "Surely it would be a herculean effort to justify killing some pale-skins, would it not?" Galmar chuckled, pouring a mug of wine for Gharrok.

"The Silver-Bloods run Markarth, boy. They'll be happy to pay the guards extra if you let them know what's happening! Rumours are that most of them would look the other way, if they saw a fight between us and them." The plan was immaculate, perfect. Just like Ulfric, but there was still something that was not right, something that didn't quite fit into the puzzle.

"And the Forsworn?" Galmar's face grew into a wry, yet terrifying grin.

"That's confidential." He husked, sipping at his drink. "Get some rest, you leave tomorrow morning…"


	5. Chapter 5: Markarth

Chapter 5: Markarth

The small fleet of carts rumbled alone the cobblestone road, the warm morning sun of the Whiterun Hold basking down on their backs. Gharrok sat in the middle cart, shoulder to shoulder with his comrades. The set up for the mission was very elaborate, but flawless. Since the Markarth Incident, any follower or soldier of Ulfric Stormcloak's were forbidden from entering the City of Blood and Silver, since the Empire had seized control since Ulfric's siege. The Silver-Bloods were aware of the operation and so to smuggle in the Stormcloak operatives into the city they were disguised as prisoners destined for Cidhna Mine.

"How are we getting our weapons and armour again, captain?" Someone asked, toeing Gharrok's boot.

"They are being sent in via merchants and smugglers from the Thieves Guild," Gharrok answered. "They will be delivered to our base of operations sometime at night." Gharrok hated this plan that Galmar and Ulfric had hatched. The risks were astronomical. What if the wagons were attacked? What if the smugglers were caught? What if the thieves decided to keep the equipment for themselves? There was a small fortune worth of Septims in that gear.

' _Stop it,'_ Gharrok thought. _'You need to focus. Keep your head clear and free of doubt. Remember what father once said: The first seed of doubt will destroy the field of planning.'_ To distract himself from the negative thoughts, he observed the convoy. There were an odd number of different races mixed in with the Nords. No doubt Ulfric had thrown in Imperial prisoners of war and criminals from Eastmarch to donate to the Silver-Bloods.

"Hey," a Nord next to Gharrok started. "Where are you from, captain?"

"Ivarstead," Gharrok answered, going along with the prisoner façade. "You?"

"Morthal, got arrested for murdering a man in a bar fight." This wasn't true, of course. Saldr, the Nord talking, was a free man, and a Stormcloak solder till the end. The Breton sitting across from them sneered.

"You barbarians," he spat, looking disgusted at them. "It is no wonder the Empire needs to keep you under control, otherwise you would all kill yourselves!"

"Funny for you to call us barbaric, when you are the one whose kind is off in the mountains, cannibalising and bedding hagravens!" Saldr retorted venomously.

"Why you inbred, dim-witted, son of a-!"

"Shut up back there!" The driver growled, his hand going to his sword. The driver was another Stormcloak, and was not happy about taking along several Imperials, Breton, and Redguards on the trip… Gharrok grinned to himself.

' _Cheeky blighter, yelling at his captain like that.'_ So they sat in silence, watching the fog roll over the hills and through the juniper trees. At any moment, the Forsworn could come charging out of the undergrowth, and they would be sitting ducks. The young Nord fingered his amulet to Talos and prayed that they were busy attacking some other traveller, and not them…

.

.

Eventually the sun started to set, and they were almost at the City of Stone, it's white walls reflecting the glaring rays as they pulled up to the city.

"Hey, wake up." Gharrok mumbled, nudging Saldr awake. "We are here." The convoy of wagons parked outside the stables, and they were forced of, many struggling to stand after two days constant ride.

"Form a line, scum!" One of the city guards growled, his helmet flickering in the torchlight. They did as instructed, and followed him through the huge metal gates into Markarth. Gharrok had never seen an entire city made of stone and metal. The orange tinge was foreign to him, and it enthralled him.

"So, this is where it all began, eh?" Saldr said in awe of the Dwavern ruins, now a hub for the people of the Reach. "The Markarth Incident… Perhaps we will be setting things right from back then."

"My fa was there on that night," Gharrok mumbled, walking next to the recruit. "He led the charge and was the first one to break through the Forsworn spears."

"That's right, you are the son of Roland Broken-Blade!"

"No talking!" A guard snapped, pushing Gharrok back into line. As they crossed the wooden bridge and began their descent into the dank caverns underground, he only hoped that the plan would go without a hitch. He did not trust House Silver-Blood, and Gharrok prayed to the All-Maker that he would not be spending the rest of his days mining, or be used as a ransom chip…

.

.

"Line up, prisoners!" The head guard of the mine growled, and they formed an orderly line. What surprised many of them, including Gharrok, was that she was an Orc. After what seemed like hours of torturous lecturing about how they'd never seen sunlight again, or how great House Silver-Blood was, and what an honour it was to work for them, they were inspected and searched individually before being sent to their cells. If a Nord was found with an amulet of Talos, they were one of the Stormcloaks on the mission, and sent the guards break room instead. Eventually all twenty of the squad that Gharrok was leading arrived.

"You brought a lot of new miners, been a while since we had some Argonians and Imperials." The Orc grumbled, stepping into the room. She closed the door and waited for the all clear from the outside. "Who is in charge here?"

"I am," Gharrok said, standing up from his seat. "Gharrok Broken-Blade. And you are?"

"Urzoga gra-Shugurz. I know what your mission is, and I know my instructions." Several crates were brought in as she began to unbind them. "There are clothes and some light armour in there, plus some light weapons. Take a while to smuggle in your Stormcloak armour and the bigger weapons. Will wait outside while you change." She closed the door behind her and locked it with a key. The Nords, now free of their bindings, looked to Gharrok for instructions.

"Orders, captain?" Saldr asked, taking the courageous step of prompting their leader, not a usually wise thing to do in the Stormcloak armies.

"Oh, right! Sorry," Gharrok smiled, his mind wondering from weariness. "Find your weapons and get changed. We need to be out of here before sunrise." They started stripping down and putting on odds and ends of whatever was inside the boxes. Gharrok searched through the crates that contained weapons. Thankfully, Icefang was in there. After putting on some leather armour and a cloak and waiting for everyone else to finish, he knocked on the door, and the Orc woman came back in.

"Good, you're done. Head to the Silver-Blood Inn and give them this note, they shall accommodate you." They were about to leave, when she blocked their way. "One more thing. I have been told to say this, though I do not care in all honesty. The Thalmor have a strong hold in this city, and they take anyone they believe to worship Talos, so lose the amulets." Many did in fact take theirs of, but Gharrok just slipped it under his shirt. As he went to open the door, Urzoga stamped her foot in front of it, blocking them in again.

"I hate the Stormcloaks, and I hate Ulfric. Markarth has never been the same since that night he came," She glowered at them, baring her huge frontal teeth. "But the Silver-Bloods pay me well, so I have no choice. The only way they can keep paying me is if they stay in control, or get more power. If you mess this up, then we are _all_ going to suffer. And I wont hesitate to hunt you down…"

.

.

.

The group waited near the lip of the mine until it was past midnight, and then they crossed the river and entered the Silver-Blood inn. Saldr and Gharrok went to the bar, whilst the others went their own ways.

"Can I help you two?" Frabbi, the owner asked. Gharrok passed her the note he was given in the mine. She read it in silence, and called her husband over, pointing to the seal on the message and it's instructions.

"Come with me," Kleppr, Frabbi's husband instructed. The twenty Stormcloaks followed him through a single, plain door and up a long winding staircase.

"It's about tine someone came and did something about those pale-skins," Kleppr said, trying to break the ice of conversation. "Damn Elves, they think they can do whatever they want to our people and our homeland…" They arrived at a large set of double doors made of dwavern metal. They opened and led to a large commons room, with a kitchen on one side, and a small armoury in another. Several adjoining rooms lead to bedrooms and a bathhouse. There was even a small alchemy setup.

"Very impressive," Gharrok whistled, his comrades walking in and making themselves comfortable, not holding back on the complimentary food and drink.

"We have not had to use this place since the Forsworn took over, but rest assured, it is the perfect base of operations. We have couriers at will downstairs, and as much food and ale as you brave men and women can belly!"

"Your kindness is appreciated," Gharrok smiled, reaching for his coin purse. "How much is this going to cost?"

"Only gonna cost you Septims if they start breaking things,"

"I'll keep them in line then."

"Good lad. For the Rebellion, and all that. I would give up everything I own if it meant we were free."

"You could always sign up!" Someone shouted, already neck deep in a mead bottle.

"No, I am too old to fight, those days are over. I was in Cyrodiil, I will have you know!"

"Needless to say, your generosity is much appreciated," Gharrok interjected. "I swear that it will not go unpaid. Talos guide you friend." The innkeeper left, and Gharrok explored the base whilst others chose beds and stoked the hearths. There was a large room with a double bed overlooking the marketplace. Gharrok dumped his pack on the bed and ate a lukewarm bowl of stew sitting at the table.

"Oh, I have not felt a bed this comfortable since I left Solitude!" One of the soldiers sighed in relief. " _So_ much better than being in those rags and being squished in between a scale-back and a brown-hide for what felt like an Era!"

"You are from the Capitol?" Gharrok asked, turning to face him. "Why did you leave? I would think that someone like you would fight for General Tullius."

"After what happened with Ulfric, I could not bare to stay. Ulfric challenged High King Torygg to High Combat, and beat him fairly, and they want his head! If that was injustice enough, they imprison the only man brave enough to help him and brand him a traitor. I don not know if he has been sent to the headsman's block yet, but I could not stand by and do nothing. So I packed up and left for Windhelm."

"That's very admirable of you," Gharrok turned to them and gave him a respectful nod. "Keep an attitude like that, and you'll do well in our ranks."

"Thank you captain!" The soldier nodded, holding back a yawn. "Forgive me, it's been a long day."

"No need to apologise. You should all head to bed soon men. Tomorrow, we start taking Markarth back from the Empire!"


	6. Chapter 6: Working with Silver-Bloods

Gharrok was awake at around six, the sun barely beginning to rise. On the main table in the commons room were detailed maps of the Reach and Markarth. He stared blankly at them, wishing that he had a clue what he was going to do. Gharrok had sworn to Ulfric that he had a plan, but in all honesty, a plan now was as impossible as dragons flying the skies of Nirn once again. His only prior orders had been to set up a base that the Stormcloaks could use in Markarth, and flush out the Thalmor, or cripple their forces at least.

" _The orders that shall be carried out are your own, they are your choice,"_ Ulfric Stormcloak said to him before the expedition began. _"I trust you enough, Lord Gharrok. Though I have rarely seen you in person when you were young, I have watched you grow from afar. You are a fine leader, maybe even better than my son."_

" _You have a son?" Gharrok asked. Everyone know the story, how the Empire assassinated his wife and babe shortly after he killed High King Torygg. If he had another child…_

" _A bastard, yes," Ulfric answered. "Your father and I were once shield-brothers, he was there when I brought him home. You know him already, I can assure you of that fact. Should my son not prove honourable enough, I shall adopt you as my son, so you may lead my armies one day. For now, you must focus on the present. The actions of the Nightblades may not seem important, or your following mission, but it is vital that we succeed here. Trust in your judgment, and you shall do well, Bone-Breaker Gharrok…"_

"It is odd to see a lord up so early," Saldr yawned, emerging from his room. "Is the latrine full, or are you waiting for something else?"

"I'm trying to plan our course of action," Gharrok mumbled, ignoring the jest at him being highborn. "But I have no idea what I am working with here, I need more information. Go take your shit, then wake the men and women…"

.

.

The first who woke were slow to get out of bed, and the rest protested. Gharrok realised that he would have to use the whip to get these farm boys and milkmaids in shape.

"I shall not have slackers under my command!" Gharrok announced, marching into the quarters and stealing the bedding from those still sleeping. "If you are slow in battle, you die!" The Unblooded watched in a mixture of horror, humour, and confusion as their leader lobbed the blankets out the window, deliberately aiming for the aqueduct. "Now form up!" Seeing that their captain didn't screw around, they quickly formed organised lines.

"What we need is intelligence, and to know how surmountable our objective is. You are going into groups of two or three, and you shall spend the day walking the streets, gathering as much information as you can. I want to know every time the Empire loyalists take a shit, when the Justiciars in the city blink, understand? Work the shops, the marketplace, the Warrens, the smelters, and Understone Keep. Dress appropriately for the job. Do I make myself clear?" A slow and sloppy chorus of 'aye's answered.

"I said, _DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?"_

AYE, SIR!" They shouted in unison.

"That's more like it. The shops open at eight, so I want you all out by eight-thirty. The slowpokes from earlier can collect their blankets and dry them out…"

.

.

After walking through the marketplace and making small talk with the vendors, Gharrok and another squad mate were summoned to the Treasury House, the apparent headquarters for the Silver-Blood family.

"What do you want?" An old man wheezed as they knocked on the door, looking at them snidely. "Don't want no more sellswords, get lost!"

"My name is Gharrok of House-Broken Blade, and this is Bramm. We are with the Stormcloaks."

"What? There's no Stormcloaks-"

"Out of the way, old man!" A much younger man, a Nord in shiny steel armour, shoved the man to the floor. "You two. Inside now." Bramm gave his captain a confessed look, but Gharrok only shrugged before entering the house.

.

.

"The name is Thongvor Silver-Blood, remember it." The armoured man grunted, sitting down in a chair. "Sure you two are Stormcloaks? Where is your armour?"

"Stormcloaks are not allowed in the city, so we are disguised for now. Our identities shall be revealed to the public later." Gharrok answered, and pulled a letter out of his satchel. "Here, it has Ulfric's seal and signage." The Silver-Blood read over the note, saying that they were legit and willing to help, so long as the Silver-Bloods helped their cause.

"Donnel, get these men some mead, they shall be here a while." The old man from before hobbled forward with a tray with several different bottles of mead and tankards. Gharrok unscrewed some Black-Briar Reserve. He had only tasted the delicious beverage once, and loved it ever since. "So, how many of there are you?"

"I'm leading twenty strong," Thongvor looked at Bramm and snorted.

"Looks like he is still wet behind the ears! Trust Ulfric to throw away a bunch of Unblooded!"

"We may not be the most experienced soldiers, but we are worth double you veterans are!" A shocked silence hung in the air, even Gharrok turned to his companion, astounded. For a lowborn to speak to a Lord in such a way, in their own house…

"You must forgive my friend!" Gharrok immediately put in before Thongvor's snarling could turn to words. "We have been traveling for days on end, and the journey has been hard on all of us. I shall see to it that he is appropriately punished." From what he'd heard about Bramm, he was a quiet boy from Solitude. He would rather spend his days reading and playing lute than fighting. Like most of the Rebellion's recruits, he'd never picked up a sword in his life.

"Hmph, we shall see." Thongvor grunted. "Learn respect, boy. Else I will have you mining silver for the rest of your life!"

"Forgive me, my lord." Bramm apologised, bowing his head deeply. "My behaviour was out of line, and shall not happen again!"

"Pray, it won't. Or I shall feed your tongue to the dogs. Anyway, we should discuss your plans here." Gharrok and Bramm nodded.

"I will be honest here, our mission is solid, but how we achieve this objective is rather… Unclear."

"Figures," Thongvor spat, sipping at his drink. "Well you are the leader of these milk drinkers, do you not have any musings?"

"Well, here's what I was thinking…"

.

.

Over the next month, Gharrok's plan began to take shape. The young captain knew that without the people's support, Markarth would never be theirs. Gharrok decided that his plan would be subtle, wining over the hearts and minds of the people, rather than force their bodies into service. With the help of House Silver-Blood, posters were displayed all over the city, telling of how the Empire were spineless cowards who served their Thalmor masters in more ways than one. Others showed those rival factions destroying the Nord's way of life, there were even ones showing Jarl Ulfric shaking hands with a Forsworn, declaring that there would peace between the two parties, should he be made High King.

The Stormcloak soldiers began to spread rumours in the marketplace, the inn, and the smelters, that Jarl Igmund was secretly dealing with the Thalmor, giving them the names of Talos worshipers.

"What are your latest reports?" Gharrok asked, one morning to his consul.

"The results of our work have definitely begun to flourish." Bramm said sitting with him and the three other Stormcloaks who were the most experienced, and assured themselves seats at Gharrok's table. "People have begun to openly curse the Empire, and Igmund's name."

"They say that he is no better than a Thalmor's whore." Another agreed, watching a couple of Stormcloaks try some drunken archery. Gharrok knew he had to deal with them soon, such debauchery and rapscallions could destroy all their work. "As you are well aware, the city guards are owned by the Silver-Bloods, and they did nothing to stop this, only stepping in to handle the drunk and disorderly."

"We have also been given the location of the Thalmor headquarters in Understone Keep, and will soon begin sabotaging it at your command."

"What would you recommend we do?" Gharrok grimaced, an arrow clattering off the stone wall, close to one of the women mending clothes.

"I suggest that we raid their headquarters, trashing the place, to throwing manure everywhere, an' releasing a horde of skeevers!" Saldr grinned, punching his fist lightly on the table. Bramm and Saldr shared the position of second in command among the team leaders of the Markarth skirmish. While neither of them was by the definition, legendary, with a sword, all the soldiers here were learning fast. Gharrok was a well-read person, but Bramm, an aspiring bard, outmatched him every time, and no one knew the streets and how to woo the public like Saldr!

"Good news, Cap!" A Stormcloak lass thudded into a chair with them, pushing a sheet of paper under his nose. Another passed around bowls of gruel with honey drizzled over it. "The people are starting a petition to reopen the Temple of Talos!" Gharrok skimmed through the report whilst the others got ready for the day.  
"As good as it sounds, it will not happen while the Imperials and Thalmor are in the City. Bramm, how is the work in the marketplace going?"

"Good! The shopkeepers and people are fully supporting our cause."

"And the smelters?"

"It has been hard work, because that is where the Forsworn are working out of!" A soldier answered, sharpening his axe. Most of their equipment was now shipped in, and being used, but their Stormcloak armour only came in by ones and twos, new sets coming very infrequently. Another arrow barely missed someone. The next time they threw a tankard up, their target, it exploded in an icy mist.

"The next time you do anything as stupid as that, I will not hesitate to put an ice spike through your head, understand!?" Gharrok snarled, his hand still ready to shoot another spike if needed. "You are a soldier, not a mercenary, so act like one!"

"Apologies, m'lord." They mumbled, clearly not sorry at all.

"Right, here is today's objectives:" Gharrok stood up, looking towards his shield-brothers and sisters. "This morning, I want Bramm and Saldr to walk around the marketplace in their Stormcloak armour. Viven and Fredys, You two are in Understone Keep, Thongvor Silver-Blood will look after you. Swap out with Greta and Jannet after lunch. Tonight, we shall try something new out…" Gharrok went into his room and pulled out an old set of Imperial Light armour, causing confusion in the ranks. "Got this from Galmar Stone-Fist. Tonight, in the inn, we're going to have a bit of a fight. Have someone in this and someone in Stormcloak armour. They fight, and the Imperial get's their hide kicked into Oblivion. Stormcloak celebrates, and shows how weak the Imperial troops are."

"Sounds like the regular Imperials though, you sure we need a fake one?" Saldr shouted, causing them all to laugh.

"Truer words have never been spoken, friend. Now, let's-" Gharrok was interrupted by a knocking at the door, causing all to tense up. Only Kleppr and Frabbi knew of this room, and they had scheduled times for entering, unless someone requested them. "Did anyone order any food, or drink?" The Nords in company shook their heads. "Weapons." Was all Gharrok mumbled as he drew Icefang and approached the metal doors with caution. "Who is it? State you business!"

"It's Donnel, I bring a message from the Silver-Bloods!" Gharrok opened the door a sliver and peeked out, seeing only the old man. Gharrok opened the door fully, yet his comrades were just around the corner, ready for an ambush.  
"Heh, scared of an old man like me?" he chuckled, seeing Gharrok's axe. "I'm not baiting you out, do not worry, m'lord! The Silver-Bloods have a mission for you, and they need you now."

"Bramm, Jannet, with me. The rest of you get moving!" Gharrok ordered, sheathing Icefang, and the young lad and lass followed their captain up to the Treasury House, to listen to the orders from the resident Lords.

.

.

"Every year, House Silver-Blood makes a pilgrimage to all of the Shrines to Talos in the Reach," Thongvor started, pointing to a map of the Hold, several locations on it had tiny crosses etched in. "It has been a long standing tradition since the Third Era, and I wish to upkeep the duty."

"I have no doubt that Talos would appreciate the dedication of your family," Gharrok smiled. Having grown up in a family that was quite religious, he knew that every person had their own way of appreciating the Divines, and other deities.

"Why I am summoning you here this morning is because the Forsworn have been growing bolder in their actions. I cannot afford to have a whole unit of the city guard protecting me, lest they attack Markarth."

"Might I ask what you would have us do, m'lord?" Jannet asked.

"There is no question that either the Forsworn or the Thalmor have been pillaging the shrines. My men and I will require protection whilst we restore any damage sustained." The three Stormcloaks looked at each other for a few moments, as if discussing with telepathy. Such a mission would surely help secure relations with House Silver-Blood, but there was certainly a risk. Thalmor ambush teams were known to hide at shrines to Talos and execute worshippers. The Forsworn, on the other hand, were a mystery. There was no literature written about them, and very little intelligence on how they fought, where they prowled, and whom they would strike against was unknown.

"We will do whatever we can," Gharrok finally spoke up.

"A good answer, Lord Broken-Blade. Meet me at the stables in an hour."

.

.

Gharrok and seven other Stormcloaks waited at the stables outside the gates, wearing their proper battle armour. It felt good to be back in his armour, the straps were always at the right level, and the padded leather fit snugly over his chainmail shirt. Gharrok checked the edge on Icefang, and that she was charged enough. Icefang had one of the strongest frost enchantments possible, an ancient Nordic hex that was deadly even to all, from draugr, to giant. Gharrok never kept her charged, but if they were to impress House Silver-Blood, they'd need to look as impeccable as possible. His pouch was cluttered with spare soul gems, ready to be used. Bramm, Saldr, and five others were with him, waiting. Eventually, Thongvor exited the city gates, accompanied by five of the city guards and a couple of normal looking civilians. No doubt a priest and an architect.

"Let us be off," Thongvor announced, mounting the harras of horses that the Silver-Bloods owned, and they began the expedition down the long winding road. The trip was quiet, the guards and Gharrok on high alert, aware that around the corner, or just over any of the hills surrounding them could be a Forsworn raiding party. Gharrok had never fought a Forsworn, not even when he and his father went adventuring across Skyrim when he was a couple of years younger.

"I remember this road," Gharrok mumbled, trying to start a conversation after what seemed like an hour of tense silence.

"You have been to the Reach before?" Bramm asked.

"When I was a lot younger. Yes. My father took my adventuring across the Province, from Riften to Solitude, visiting the towns and cities along the way. I was to meet all of the Lords and Ladies of each and every court."

"So you met High King Torygg? Was he as honourable as they said?"

"Even more so," Gharrok answered, remembering how he met the High King all too well… "One day I shall tell you the story!"

Eventually the guards, and the other Stormcloaks seemed to let their guard down, after visiting a few of the designated shrines, beginning to chat and sing traveling songs among themselves.

"Oooh, there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red, who came riding to Whiterun from old Roikstead…" Bramm started.

"And the braggart did swagger and brandish his blade as he told of old tales and gold he had made!" Saldr continued.

"Milk drinkers," Thongvor spat, riding quietly beside Gharrok. "Do they not know that the noise could cause an avalanche in these mountains, or bring down the Forsworn?"

"True, but I spy your men drinking on horseback," Gharrok replied, nodding towards the Markarth guards, gulping down mouthfuls of mead. "Now _that_ is a worse idea than my men having a song in their heart!"

"Just keep them in line, Lord Broken-Blade." The Silver-Blood grunted, barking at his men to sober up and pay attention.

.

.

"This should be the last one," one of the guards sighed in relief, dismounting his horse. "Thank Talos, My arse has been killing me!"

"Think I would rather go toe-to-toe with a spriggin right about now." Gharrok agreed, his rump numb from a day's worth of riding. He approached Thongvor, and mumbled into his ear. "Did you see the blood stains on the path up here?"

"I did, they looked old though. A couple of weeks at least."

"Aye, but were you wary of the colour of the stains? Red, and blue... The only creatures who have blue blood are-"

"Elves," He looked around him and up the hills suspiciously, hand going to his sword. "Maybe it was just a passing by Orc band? They have strongholds somewhere in the hills."

"Orcs have dark red blood," Gharrok replied, thumbing Icefang's handle. "We should make haste and retreat back to the safety of Markarth." They climbed a narrow, winding path up to a rock face with an arch in it's body, which going through led to a secluded glade. Pa It was abandoned, as expected, though they had bumped into some Talos worshipers earlier that morning at one of the shrines. Their tales of avoiding Justiciars while worshiping filled the men with dread, and Gharrok prayed to Talos _and_ the All-Maker that their jouney would be a safe one.

"Spread out, people!" Gharrok instructed to the weary Stormcloak troops. "Search the area and see if you find anything suspicious." By now, they had followed this process a dozen times over, and knew what to do. Gharrok placed a Septim before the dilapidated shrine, thanking the Divine for a safe journey. The priest smiled and continued to bless the site as the guards and architect cleaned up the mess and restored the shrine to its former glory.

"Found some bloodstains over here!" Bramm announced. "And some dead wisps too!" Gharrok nodded, clenching his axe tighter. Forsworn were one thing, and they'd been lucky so far not to run into them, but a wispmother...  
"If there are dead wisps, surely their mother should be nearby? Keep up your guard and-"

"Already found it!" Saldr laughed, kneeling next to her cold corpse, slumped at the rear of the statue of Talos. "Wonder if there is anything good on her." He used the chance to grope her ethereal bosoms, probably because he'd never get the chance to again. Many men wanted to lay with a wispmother, they were beautiful creatures, until they started shooting ice magic... "She got shot in the back with these arrows."

"Let me see those," Gharrok gasped, pulling them out of her body. "Hard, straight shaft, four flights of woven feathers, and a ribbed head, made of moonstone? These are…" _Elven._ Is what he would have said, if a fleshy thud hadn't beat him to it. One of the Markarth guards looked down, the arrow penetrating him above the heart. The poor man gave Gharrok a terrified look, before falling backwards, dead. Next think he knew, a lightning bolt was electrifying Gharrok as elves materialised from the undergrowth. They'd walked straight into a Thalmor ambush!

.

.

"Bramm, Saldr, get Thongvor out of here!" Gharrok yelled, struggling to his feet and drawing Icefang.

"But what about-"

"That is an order! Now!" The six other Stormcloak soldiers rallied to Gharrok's side, and they positioned themselves in the centre of the defensive line formed by the city guards. It was a desperate attempt to halt the Thalmor attack, and each soldier knew that all that mattered was Thongvor's escape. An arrow planted itself in his shield as he battled with a soldier, and another into the shoulder of the man to his right, yet he still fought on.

' _Two archers,'_ Gharrok mussed, taking in the battlefield in the blink of an eye and kicking the elf away from him. _'Need to take care of them or we are as good as dead!'_ Gharrok managed to plant his axe into the swordsman's neck, and pulled a dagger from his belt and threw. More by luck than anything else, his aim was true, and the dagger found the Wood Elf's chest. The fight was over before it even started though; they were heavily outnumbered and caught by surprise. Gharrok could only pray that the Silver-Blood got away, and that they remembered the sacrifice that Gharrok was making.

"Men, retreat!" Someone shouted, and the Markarth guards broke of running towards the horses. "Get out of here!"

"You cowardly bastards!" Gharrok screamed at them as they fled. Ironically, they became the targets for the remaining archer and mages, being shot down before they could escape. Only one of them escaped with chances of living, the rest fell of their horses before they left the valley, not getting up again. "Stormcloaks, get back to the outcrop, then form a phalanx!" Gharrok cast a fireball into the enemy lines, and immediately zapped it with a bolt of lightning. The orb exploded in a huge plume of smoke, giving them time to escape.

"What in Talos is a phalanx?" A woman squealed, a ball of fire whizzing past her head.

"A shield wall!" Gharrok roared, slamming his shield down into the ground at the rocky pass. The other soldiers formed the line along side him, their wooden shields forming a protective line. The Thalmor soldiers battered against the barrier, hacking, casting and shooting as best they could to penetrate the defences. "Do not let any of them through! Fight till your last breath!"

' _So this is where I'm going to die, huh?'_ Gharrok thought. _'Shame, I'd rather have died storming the Blue Palace in Solitude, or on the first landing parties in the Summerset Isles.'_

"Brothers, sisters! Sovengarde awaits us! Let us not keep them waiting!" Gharrok's last throwing knife went for the other archer, but he missed. An arrow managed to snake its way through a chink in the wall, bringing down a brave soldier. The Thalmor swordsmen took advantage of the chaos, flooding over the wall and pushing Gharrok and the others back. It was almost instinctive that they formed a protective ring, fending of attackers from all sides. But the Elves didn't approach the four beaten and bloodied warriors, knowing how terrifying a Nord could be in the heat of battle. Their swordsmen were easy enough to deal with, but the remaining archer and the two mages would slaughter them.

"What do we do, Cap?" One of Gharrok's companions asked, parrying a strike from a swordsman and putting her own blade into his gut. "We're gonna die here!" As if to add to her statement, an arrow thudded into his shoulder.

"We will not!" Gharrok roared, dropping to his knee. The Nord began to see red, and there was suddenly no pain, only anger. Was this what they called the berserker's rage? To feel nothing but the urge to kill? If such a thing surely did exist, he would use this to turn the tide of battle. Gharrok rose to his knees and bellowed a roar that even a troll would be scared by. He charged past the swordsmen, heading straight for the mages and the archer. Another arrow flew for him, the barbed head grazing his cheek, yet it felt as if it were only a feather gracing his skin. Gharrok shoved past one of the mages to get to the archer and the taller mage. Icefang swung wildly, blocking and riposting every attack that came at him. The Justiciar kicked Gharrok's wrist as he came for a remise, sending his beloved axe scattering to the ground. No matter. Gharrok was adept at all kinds of magic. He went to conjure up a magical blade. But the archer tackled him, both of them rolling on the ground over the Elf's knife. A Nord was a much bigger and stronger species than a Wood Elf, and soon the Bosmer was pinned underneath him, the knife in Gharrok's hand

"Oblivion awaits you all!" The Nord raised the knife to plunge into his chest, but just as he brought it down, he was sent sprawling. The mage he knocked away panting, a huge branch in hand.

.

.

Gharrok emerged from the murky depths of his concussion, his whole body flaring with pain. He tried to move himself, but his hands were bound, his legs were bound, what had happened. It pained him to do it, but he craned his neck to look around. The other three Stormcloaks were kneeling in a line by him, and bound and beaten. Their weapons and helmets were stripped from them, though Gharrok didn't wear one. They were bound and kicked to the ground.

"Oh thank the Divines, you're awake!" the Nordic woman gasped for joy. "We thought they'd killed you!"

"Would they bind me if I was?" Gharrok replied, trying to act cool and calm in the situation. "What happed? Where are the pale skins?"

"Chasing after Thongvor, but we bought them enough time." The two Elves that were standing guard glared at them, rather annoyed to see that Gharrok was alive.

"Captain…" One of his men wheezed, already pale and bleeding profusely. "I will not last much longer..." Blood spluttered from his mouth, but that was only a fraction compared to the slice along his belly.

"Gods, lad!" Gharrok gasped, shimmying over to him. "I have seen giants killed by less! Let me aid you." Thankfully, they bound his hands in front, and Gharrok's palms lit up with a healing spell, the orb sinking into his friend's body.

"Stop that!" An elf snarled, kicking Gharrok in the stomach with his armoured boot, causing him to double over in pain. It was at that moment that the entourage of Elves perusing Lord Silver-Blood returned, dismounting from their mounts.

"We lost them." One of the Justiciars growled. "No matter. We know who it was, and we shall have him soon enough."

"What do we do with them, captain?" Gharrok looked up at their captain, hoping it would be the old Altmer he helped a few months ago, and he could return the favour. Instead, it was a young woman…


	7. Chapter 7: Excecution

Gharrok tried his best to hide his excitement at seeing the young elf. Though she may not remember him, at least he'd be able to see a pretty face before he left Nirn.

"So what shall we do with them?" The remaining Bosmer archer asked, keeping an arrow aimed at Gharrok's heart. Unfortunately, it was not Eladãn, that Wood Elf he met on the raid many moons ago. None of the elves here were the same ones from that day, bar the woman. The woman glanced in his direction and stared at him. Gharrok gave a subtle nod, showing he recognised her, and she gave him an almost invisible, twitch of the eye. Was that a sign she remembered? Was it a look of someone who knew not what the debt they were in? The Skaal could only prey to the All-Maker that she remembered.

"They are Talos worshiping infidels," A muscular Justicar in robes growled. He looked more like he'd be better swinging a warhammer, than casting spells. "Kill them."

One of the soldiers drew a dagger and approached the young man to Gharrok's left. They pushed him in front of them, pulled his head back, and sliced the knife across his neck. Gharrok flinched and looked away as his comrade's blood splattered all over his face and armour.

"You pale-skin bastards!" the remaining male Nord roared at them as the first fell to the ground, spluttering and drowning in his own blood. "If you are going to kill us, let us fight for our freedom!"

"Oh, you want to fight, do you?" The Justicar sneered. "Trust these barbaric Nords to want to draw out their inevitable demise!" the Justicar picked up Icefang and gave her a few swings as one of his soldiers threw his weapon to the ground. "Go on, pick up your weapon!" his bindings were cut, and the Nord dived for the sword.

' _Too late…'_ Gharrok groaned to himself, seeing the fatal mistake that made his death inevitable. It was over in a few seconds, yet the sight that he saw would stay with Gharrok for years. The Justicar brought his metal covered kneecap into the prisoner's face, both stunning him and causing him to grunt in pain as his nose was shattered. Next, the High Elf punched the Nord in the gut, causing him to double over. Icefang was driven into the nape of the Nord's neck, causing Gharrok to gasp in shock at his ferocity. The Nord collapsed into the dirt, beginning to shiver and shudder as a nervous seizure took over his body. Though the blow should've killed him, he lay there with the axe in his neck, spasaming and hyperventilating, drool flowing out of his mouth and blood pooling around his face.

"Typical," The Justicar snorted, hoicking a phlegmy wad of spit onto the fallen warrior's already dying body. "Deal with him when he stops moving." An evil grin grew on his face, seeing the fear and shock in Gharrok's eyes.

An orb of light appeared in the Justiciar's hands, and he pressed it into the Stormcloak's convulsing body, keeping him alive.  
"Stop it!" Gharrok pleaded, seeing the Elf relish in the dying man being kept from death. "You have dealt the killing blow, just let him die in peace!" This caused the Justicar to laugh manically and only continue the healing.

"Your kind are nothing but filth! You and the scum you call kin killed wiped out our greatest of brethren, and all their works! You will never be what the Snow Elves were!"

"What? That was thousands of years ago, you blithering idiot!" Female Nord shouted at him. "No one here was alive then, you cannot blame us for such things!

Gharrok knew little of that old history, but from what he remembered, it was the _elves_ who started the wars between them and Ysgramor's Five-hundred Companions. Best not to mention that now.

"Please, he has suffered enough. In the name of Arkay, please let him rest!"

"Ancano, that's enough," One of the soldiers said, putting a hand on his shoulder. Many of the Thalmor were clearly disgusted by his behaviour. "The poor bastard's had enough." Ancano grunted, stoping the healing spell. Soon, though it took much longer than anyone hoped, the Nord stopped shivering, and finally rested.

"Spare…Spare me." The woman kneeling next to him whimpered, seeing how truly brutal war was.

"What did you say?"

"Please spare me! I don't want to die! I will do anything, M'lord!" The older Justiciar laughed an evil, cackling laugh.

"I am a lord now, gentlemen! Bow down, ya shits!" The woman sulked as they spat insults and jeered at her.

"I did not realise what war was like! I do not want to die like this!"

"Maybe we could send them to the Arena in the Imperial City?" One of the soldiers suggested. "Imagine it: The Stormcloak Barbarians! Traitors to their own course, finding salvation in the Pits!"

"Or she could lick our cocks when we are bored," Another suggested, undressing her with his eyes. "I like 'em wild!" Gharrok turned to her, the pang of guilt and sadness running through him. Before she signed up, this girl was nothing more that a milkmaid, yet here she was, at the mercy of foreign invaders.

"Fuck her, if you so please. Be as rough as you want." The swordsmen grabbed her, pulling her to her feet.

"What? No, you can't do this!" She squealed, resisting.

"Let her go!" Gharrok roared, tackling one of them, head-butting his skull into his nose.

"Fuckin-" The man punched the stump of the arrow shaft still in Gharrok's shoulder. He howled in pain, but continued to try and save her. "I'll kill you if you touch her!"

"We already have!" A swordsman retorted, her top being thrown of, the Elves groping her exposed breasts.

"Please! Stop!" she screamed, kicking her legs for all the life in her. She resistance was rewarded with a punch to the jaw, sending her reeling. Gharrok was eventually restrained, having his arms and legs tied together.

"All-Maker as my witness, I will end you!" Gharrok roared, tugging as best he could at the bindings. The Nord woman's trousers had been torn away, her skirt armour pulled down by her ankles.

"SAVE ME GHARROK!" She screamed, the first man having pushed his way in. The female Justiciar, the High Elf girl, she looked at him sadly.

' _Do something…'_ The look in the Skaal's eyes begged of her, but she refused, looking the other way. His whole world was going grey, the shock and coldness of what he was being forced to watch stabbing him to the very core. This young girl, not even sixteen, having bled and taken forcibly in more ways than one, over, and over again…

.

.

By the time they were done with her she was blank, expressionless. As pale as an ice wraith. If only he could have could have stoped them!

"I'm so sorry…" Gharrok almost choked, crawling over to where she lay. Her clothes were torn to shreds, and body a beaten, wet mess. She barely responded, blinking once solemnly. "This is all my fault, I-" Icefang was planted into her head, and the woman's body slumped to the ground, face eating mud.

"NO!" Gharrok roared, snarling like a sabre cat hunting down a skeever. "I'll kill you pale-skin!"

"Now, you." Ancano pointed to Gharrok, as if him murdering her was as casual as swatting a fly.

"You were their leader. What shall we do with you, hm?" Ancano picked up the sword from before and swung it casually. "I have wasted enough time here. This will be." One of the soldiers yanked the braided hair that flopped down one side of his head, while the rest that went down to his shoulders was pulled away too, so that his neck was exposed.

"You cannot kill me," the Nord smirked. It would seem that as much as he hated the Empire, the Skaal-Empire Pact would save him.

"What did you say!?"

"I hail from Solstheim. The Skaal-Empire Pact forbids for you to execute me like this! You would hang for such an act!" many of the elves looked at themselves with unease. To kill a Skaal without proper authority was one of the most treasonous acts, since their numbers were so few, and their aiding of the Dunmer.

"Your body will be so messed up that they won't recognise you." Ancano sneered, his shrill, evil voice shattering Gharrok's hopes. He sighed and looked to the sky, seeing Masser already out, despite it only being the afternoon.

"My ancestors are smiling on me today, elves. Can you say the same?" Ancano laughed at his bravado, and pointed the sword down at Gharrok, ready to bring it down into his jugular.

"The dead do not praise the living, I am sure you will see for yourself soon…" And with that, he brought the point down…


	8. Chapter 8: The She-Elf

Gharrok had been stabbed before, when he was a younger man. The memory of the cold steel penetrating his body and numbing the wound in a chilling pain was something he remembered years later. It took a lot of healing magic and ale to overcome that with a smile on his face. However there was none of that this time. No laughing friends, not a drop of alcohol to numb his senses, no supportive father and worrying mother, only him being held down and a blade of malachite and moonstone plunging into his jugular.

' _I am sorry Meela,'_ Gharrok thought. _'It would seem that your big brother will not be returning home…'_ The cold point of the point kissed his Adam's apple, but it stopped there. It did not press further in, ending his life.

"What in Oblivion are you doing!?" Ancano snarled. Gharrok opened an eye to see the Altmer woman, holding Ancano's wrists, stopping him from thrusting in further. "Out of the way, woman!" She glared at him, pushing the other Justiciar away from the captive Skaal. The she-elf only scowled at her superior, standing protectively in front of Gharrok. She either said something to him, or nothing, Gharrok could not hear, his attention was driven elsewhere; the other elves, escape routes, the dead soldiers.

"You stand down or you will be next!" Her response was hissed, and Gharrok craned to hear it. The other Elves seemed to read her lips, shifting uncomfortably.

"Humph, suit yourself. You can deal with him." Ancano strutted up to Gharrok, pushing past the female elf. "Today is your lucky day, filth. You get a few minutes longer before your inevitable end." There was a glint of light and Gharrok hissed in pain. Ancano had slashed the tip of the blade across Gharrok's face, sending his hot blood to trickle down his now cut cheek.

 _"I hope the Forsworn make you into their whore."_ Is what Gharrok would've said, if the situation were different, but he bit his tongue.

"Squadron, move out!" Ancano barked. "Let her deal with the barbarian. Leave the dead."

"But Justiciar, it is regulation that-" The remaining Bosmer archer started.

"I said leave them!" The Wood Elf looked sadly down at the corpse of the other archer, struggling to hold back tears.

"Goodbye, brother..." He mumbled as they left.

"Meet us at Old Hroldan when you have finished. Do not waste my time." Gharrok gave the Wood Elf a sympathetic look, being responsible for his sibling's death. Such was the way of war. But now his attention turned to the she-elf. His blood boiled, remembering how she just stood there and let them ravage that girl, how they let that pale-skin bastard torture his comrade!

' _You will pay for your sin,'_ Gharrok thought, glowering. _'By the All-Maker and Talos, I will end you!'_

 _._

 _._

She stood there an hour, more even. It was hard to tell in the Reach, the clouds were always overcast. Gharrok was not allowed to speak or look at her, only stare at his blood slowly drip into the mud. His wound was not severe, but several small cuts and bashings added up to the groggy mess he was. A small red bottle appeared from the folds of her cloak, and she offered it to him. Gharrok glared and turned away. Scowling, she grabbed his chin and pushed the bottle past his lips, as if he were a calf being bottle-fed. The Nord struggled, but the liquid that ran down his throat seemed to dull the pain, and give him greater energy.

"Free me," Gharrok grunted. The she-elf sat down on a log, cleaning her dagger. Was she taunting him? Or did she not understand the common tongue? "Do you not understand the common tongue?" She shook her head, sheathing her blade. Gharrok's face started to turn red. Now she was just tormenting him. "Release me, you witch!" Her head snapped to him, glaring daggers. She put her finger to her lips, and then pointed to the direction that Ancano went, and then to her pointed ears. Gharrok blinked in bewilderment, before the revelation soon hit him. If he made too much noise, the other Elves would hear him and finish him of. And so they waited, Gharrok sat there tugging at his bonds. Eventually the Elf looked at him, slipping the dagger through his bonds and began to saw through the leather bonds. His six dead comrades, three dying honourably in battle, but the other half murdered brutally and unnecessarily… this woman had the option to save them, have them in chains or in slavery! Anything would be better than the fates his brothers and sister have met. Was it really fair that she live while they lie here to rot and be eaten by the maggots? As soon as the bonds were severed his hands shot to her neck, clamping her windpipe shut.

"YOU!" Gharrok snarled in Skaalish. "You bitch! You let them all die!" She seemed terrified, sputtering for breath. She tried to thrust the dagger into his side, but Gharrok disarmed her and kicked it away. "Why!? Why didn't you stop them!" his speech returned to the common tongue, hopefully one she understood. "The didn't have to die! She didn't…" Gharrok fell to his knees, crawling over to the young lass, Icefang still embedded in her skull. It was too late to save her, but he could at least make it look like she died with honour. It would have been what she wanted, at least that's what the Skaal thought as he tore of his sleeve to wipe clean her body. He was gentle in his wiping of her face and her privates, cleaning away the blood and ejaculate that still pooled from her orifices. A lump in his throat choked him with each stroke. This was his fault. The phalanx was holding, but he broke the wall and that's why all of the Stormcloaks here died!  
"This is all my fault…" Gharrok whispered to her corpse, slipping her clothes onto her body. "I am so sorry for your suffering. May you find peace in the All-Maker's arms." Her skirt now places back over her chainmail shirt, Gharrok took the amulet of Talos from her neck, as he did with all of his fallen subordinates. It was a simple system that allowed the dead Stormcloaks to be identified by a number and their name. A fleshy, sliding noise diverted the Gharrok's attention to find that Icefang was no longer in her head, but in the Altmer's hands. She stepped towards him, almost threateningly. Gharrok didn't flinch, looking instead into the deep abyss of her pupils.

"I care not if you kill me," Gharrok mumbled, gazing towards the two moons in the sky. "I failed in my duty, and they suffered because of it."

The Altmer blinked in confusion, wondering why the man knelt there, like a prisoner waiting to meet the headsman's block. She grabbed his sleeve, pulling him to the rear of the Talos statue, where the Wispmother lay. She slipped the fur and leather glove on his hand, and took out her dagger again.

"What -" Gharrok gasped, feeling the cool steel slice through the layers of his flesh and muscle. The trail of his blood, magic essence and all, slithered down his hand and into the Wispmother's mouth. The Altmer tilted the monster's head back and stimulated it's salivary glands and tongue, making sure the blood went down into her digestive tract. Her ethereal body began to shimmer, changing shape and colour. The body became stockier, boarder and the hair withered away, changing shape and turning blonde.

"What sorcery is this?" Gharrok asked, only receiving a shushing noise from the Altmer woman. Gharrok had heard stories of Wispmothers changing their form by consuming blood, a technique they used so that they could live among humans, slowly sapping their life energy like a like a frostbite spider would their prey. Finally, the Mother finished her transformation, it was as if Gharrok was laying dead before them.

"Ugh..." Gharrok's guts churned looking at the replica, the cloth that surrounded the Mother turning into a loincloth to cover its privates. The elf woman then drove her dagger into his doppelgänger's heart, to complete the charade of his death. Another death seemed to trigger the horrors of what the last hours had held for him. The deaths of his subordinates flashed before him: watching his friend have their throat slit and being showered in their blood as they drowned, and the other one having that seizure, and being kept alive whilst they suffered. And the lass, how she suffered. Being raped and beaten over and over, only to have Icefang hacking into her head. Gharrok stumbled away towards the river, but fell to all fours and started vomiting, heaving his guts up. The Altmer woman grunted in surprise, but knelt next to him and hold his hair back.

"All dead..." He shivered, the shock starting to sink in. "They died because I ordered them to stay and fight, I sent them to their deathbeds!" The Nord was on the verge of tears, his first role as a leader having gone disastrously. It was now that Gharrok finally started to understand the pain that his old friend Ralof suffered every time there was a skirmish. People were injured. People died. perhaps if the stratagem had been different, or if they had attacked in a different position, they would still be alive! It was a burden on the soul, one Gharrok truly understood.

"They fought bravely," she said quietly, Gharrok turning to look at the woman next to him. "May they find rest in Sov... Sovin-"

"Sovengarde," Gharrok corrected. "May they have songs sung about them in her halls..." Gharrok approached the bodies, blessing them in a Skaalish funeral rite, and removed their amulets to Talos, so that Galmar Stone-Fist can record them as casualties and return them to their families. Gharrok stood up and offered the she-elf his hand. "Thank you, and I am sorry for my behaviour before. May I ask you your name?" The elf smiled and took his helping hand up.

"My name... Is Aüriel."


	9. Chapter 9: Aüriel

They walked in silence, along the river. Aüriel had rebound him and taken Icefang for herself. Whether it was as a prize, or because she didn't trust him was unknown. His hand still bled, and all his belongings had been looted by the Thalmor foot soldiers.

"So… Where is our destination?" Gharrok asked, not recognising the path they walked. "Could you please unbind me? I will not be violent again."

"If… if I let cut you free, will you run?" Aüriel replied, her voice barley audible.

"I shall not, so long as you have Icefang." Aüriel turned to him, tilting her head in confusion.

"Ice…fang? What is an Icefang?" Gharrok chuckled, smiling at her.

"My axe, her name is Icefang."

She nodded in understanding, pushing her knife into the leather cords and deftly cut them away. Gharrok thanked her sincerely, rubbing the life back into his hands.

" 's nothing…" She looked away nervously, though Gharrok didn't understand why. Nerves? Fear? Embarrassment? The Skaal shrugged and continued on after her. As they walked, he noticed that she had her hand on her side, occasionally grimacing and hissing in pain.

"Come here, let me see you." His tone was serious, but only because she could be hurt.

"What? D-do not touch me!" She resisted, backing away and putting her hands on her body. Perhaps she misunderstood him? Either way, Gharrok was slow and gentle with his approach, despite Aüriel trying to push away the taller and stronger man. His strong hand clasped her hand, seeing the greenish-yellow liquid staining the palm of her glove.

"Blood. High Elf blood." As varying as the humanoid races were across Tamriel, so was their blood, which often matched the pigment of their skin. Aüriel mumbled something under her breath, giving up and revealing the slash that she bore on her side.

"It will not stop bleeding…" She huffed, more annoyed that the Nord found her hurt, than her bleeding profusely.

"Do you not know how to cast a healing spell?" Aüriel shook her head, her hair flowing in the wind. The time was opportune, as his wounds needed to be tended to. Thankfully the belongings that the Thalmor had left him with were his medical kit, and so they sat down on a log to recover.

"Before I teach you, I need your assistance. Gharrok threw of his padded leather vest and chainmail shirt, much to her surprise.

"What are you doing!?" She gasped, seeing the man strip.

"I took an arrow, need to get the head out." Rummaging through what was left of his field medicine kit, he placed the pair of tongs to the wooden stump.

"I do not know if I can..." Aüriel mumbled. Gharrok shrugged and yanked out the head himself, hissing in pain.

"Now, restoration spells. A self-healing spell is much like the spell for healing another. However you must change the words _'bell hadare'_ , meaning 'other', to _'bell hadras'_ , meaning 'oneself'. An orb of light sparkled, it's sacred light gracing his many wounds. Gharrok almost groaned audibly, the flowing blood from his wounds finally stemming. The torn flesh and muscle began to suture, already repairing to a scar. "Another trick when you start of is to push the orb of light into yourself, into another." Aüriel nodded subtly, stopping to try it. She mumbled the spell quietly and a tiny, flickering orb of light appeared in her cupped hands. She pushed it into herself, and the cut on her arm started to mend. Gharrok could see the extreme concentration in her furrowed brow, beads of sweat growing on forehead. Eventually the healing process stopped, the wound reopening. Gharrok frowned, looking concerned.

"It takes time to master it fully. Here, let me." The Nord pushed his own sphere of light onto her arm gently, with care.

"What are you-" Her screech was halted by a lewd moan that escaped her lips, her bode melting into the pleasurable sensation. A noise that made Gharrok's cheeks turn a shade of deep red.

"Pervert…" Aüriel grumbled, turning away, her pale face transitioning to a shade of embarrassed pink.

"It is if if you were ne'er wounded in the first place!" Gharrok smiled, proud of his work. The cut had faded into nothing more than a tiny mark, barely visible on her body

"That was…" Aüriel mumbled, looking into his eyes. "Thank you." There was a pure and innocent way that she looked at him. Despite the horrors of the early day, she still seemed to be so unknowing of the world. An even wider grin grew on Gharrok's face, and a strange feeling began to bubble in the pit of his stomach.

"Y-you are welcome, anytime." Once again their conversation began to falter, and so they trudged on quietly. There was a wild beauty to The Reach, an untameable aspect that was sparked his sense of adventure. They crossed a bridge, where Gharrok went to the riverbank and washed his face and hands, cleaning of the mud and blood, both his own, the dead Thalmor, and the blood of his fallen comrades. He promised to personally deliver their families their amulets of Talos to their families, as was tradition for a Nordic warrior. Despite Nords, and in turn Skaal, having a natural resistance to the cold, the eerie fog that swelled around the rolling hills and flowing rivers at the bottom of the steep, lush valleys sent shivers down Gharrok's spine.

"Er… Are you native to Skyrim? Or did you come here with the Thalmor?" If they were to spend the day walking, might as well have a conversation.

This unspoken agreement that they had going between themselves was turning out to be very beneficial, and he aimed to keep this relationship going.

"I… I grew up in the Summerset Isles, in a town near Graddun…Graddun Spring." The Altmer started, gradually coming out of her shell, like a flower slow to bloom. "My father was a scholar in the arcane arts of the Merethic Era and the Akaviri. The Dominion… They saw interest in his work, and sent us to the Imperial City."

"I have often heard tales of the Imperial City," Gharrok nodded. "I have yet to see it, but I shall during my travels!"

"I saw first-hand what the Dominion was doing for the Province of Cyrodil, and so I joined the Cadets, hoping to spread fortune and health to all of Tamriel!" Gharrok laughed loudly for several reasons. "What? Does my tale bring you amusement?"

"Nay," Gharrok shook his head. "Just that you have chosen the wrong career to spread knowledge and influence."

"I am a Justiciar. That is what we do!"

' _You are a soldier,'_ Gharrok thought to himself. _'A killer, no matter how much you coat that fact in honey, it will remain truthful.'_

"How long were you in Skyrim before we met?"

"Not two months,"

"Do you like the North?" Many of the realms referred to Skyrim as the Cold North, as no other realm had snow and ice like they did.

"It is… cold," Aüriel mumbled, retreating back into her nervous shell. "Cold but beautiful."

"Like the people," Gharrok gave her a toothy half grin. "Does a certain strapping young man come to mind?" he flexed a bicep and running a hand through his thick head of messy, blonde hair, causing her to look flustered and look away from him.

"Wha? N-n-no! Of course not!" Aüriel hissed, kicking a stone in anger. "I do not find Nordic brutes attractive anyway." Gharrok let out a laugh, taking the racial attack in stride. Finally crossing the river, the Skaal spied an apple tree laden with its produce. Gharrok picked three apples from it's boughs as they strode past, he hadn't eaten since before dawn, and despite the abhorrent sights he witnessed that he had witnessed not a couple of hours before, hunger gnawed at him. A wry grin grew on his face as he started to throw them above his head in a circular motion. Aüriel couldn't help but look with an almost childish delight, covering her mouth as she giggled quietly.

"You can juggle!?"

"Aye," answered he. "I learnt when I went to Solitude as a boy." The Skaal caught quick glances at her gleeful face in between the fruit hitting his palms. She was rather cute, very, in fact, despite her allegiance to the Dominion and her skill in the School of Destruction. But that almost made her more alluring, like the nightshade's flower. Beautiful to gaze upon, but deadly if mistreated

' _What in the name of Stendarr are you doing thinking about that at a time like this?'_ Gharrok's conscience rang, bringing him back to reality. _'This woman is the enemy, not a tavern wench, nor the girls from Helsmyrr Village!'_ It was time to end the game, Gharrok could see she was not looking at the fruit now with delight, but hunger. They landed in his palms, one bouncing of the rest and flying to her. He couldn't help but smile as he bit into the fruit's flesh. That, and how she caught the fruit with a tiny yelp.

"For a Justiciar, you are awful skittish!" Gharrok teased. "I can only wonder how you became an administrator of Aldmeri justice."

"Skittish? I am not skittish!" Aüriel squeaked, punching him in the arm. "I just get nervous around strangers! That, and I do not like Nords!

"Right," Gharrok hummed in an obviously sarcastic tone. "If you say so…"

.

.

Their journey on the road was a relatively peaceful. There was an Orc who tried to pick a fight with Aüriel, but Gharrok became her 'knight in shining armour' and left the Orsimer with a bloodied nose.

"Here," Gharrok offered her his hand as they ascended the almost sheer drop that was the road.

"You do not have to help me," Aüriel grumbled, taking his hand anyway.

"The pig-face was gonna try and have his way with you! I could not let that happen…" His mind was trying to repress the things he witnessed earlier that day. To have another attack on a woman would only send him over.

"Do not be racist!" She snapped, her quiet demeanour changing into an enraged being for a moment. She gasped and turned away, realising her outburst. "But still… thank you." Gharrok shrugged it of, accepting her outcry. Just that morning they were enemies, fighting to the death. What were they now? Friends? Allies? It was most likely that she was contemplating their standing with each other as well. They hiked over the rise to find below them the farming hamlet of Rorikstead. Children ran along the only road running through the town, laughing. As the sun began to set, the farmers put down their tools, heading to the inn for a meal and drink.

"Rorikstead, eh? In my head, I thought the place would be greener." The pair trudged out of the tundra and onto the road, into civilisation. Gharrok approached the inn, stepping onto the wooden railing.

"It would be best if we stayed here for tonight, the roads are not safe at night. I will pay for your accommodation."

.

.

The small inn was filled with almost all of the residents of the town, minus the children and a few guards. A town of only Nords, the sight of a Stormcloak soldier brought smiles and cheers.

"Bring him a mead on me!" someone shouted, sitting the Skaal down with a slap on the back.

"Long live Ulfric! Long love the Rebellion!" several people chorused. Aüriel slipped inside and sat by herself, aware of the looks of hostility that she received. After a few stories from Gharrok and songs shared with the bard, the people began to disperse, having enough entertainment for a night.

"Oi," a man burped, lurching towards the Altmer. "Wot are you doin' 'ere, Pale-Skin?" the man's voice was slurred, breath reeking of alcohol and vomit. "I don' want no- No Thalmor bitches on my land!" The 'Thalmor bitch', as he so eloquently put it gasped, sliding from her stool to leave. His words hurt her, and to have a confrontation would be troubling for her Order. Gharrok intervened,

putting an arm protectively in front of her, stepping between them.

"That was uncalled for, friend." Gharrok said seriously. "I suggest that you apologise to her."

"Why in fucking-" The man hiccupped angrily, if ever there was such a thing. "Why in fucking Oblivion should I? T's her kind that ruined Tamriel for the rest of us! You can _rot_ in Oblivion, you pissface!" the drunkard barrelled into Gharrok's chest, grunting on impact.

"Calm down, there is no need for racism!" Gharrok tried to push the man away. "She has not done anything in particular to harm you! She is but a traveller." Many of the other patrons of the inn had stopped their meals, looking up at the commotion. "Why the Divines are you defending this whore? Ain't you a Stormcloak soldier? T's your duty to kill her. Then lemme have her when you are done, I could use a good fucking!" Before Gharrok had even registered it, his fist had connected with the man's nose, shattering the cartilage.

"You horker shit!" he cursed, staggering back, cradling his bloodied face. "You die this night!" A glint of steel in his hand came swinging at the Skaal. Gharrok had barely enough time to put up his arm to block the attack. The knife lodged itself in his thick fur gauntlet, where Gharrok wrenched it from his hands.

"Lokir, enough!" A voice boomed across the inn. The attacker immediately faltered, jumping like a hare in long grass. A meaty set of fists came together and smashed Lokir in the back of the head, knocking the drunk out cold.

"A thousand apologies to you two, it is often that strangers are the victims of his belligerent drunkenness." The older man who delivered the blow smiled apologetically and offered the pair an open hand.

"Lokir recently lost his house to the giants because he did not give them an offering, spends his days drinking instead."  
"He has my sympathy," Gharrok shook the hand, yet the tone of his voice was not sincere at all.

"Mralki has fresh beds if you would like to stay the night? I shall pay for them, as compensation for his damages?"

"Two rooms, next to each other." Gharrok said. "She is my companion, we are sellswords. She is the mage, I am the warrior!"

"I see! I must admit, it was a strange sight to see a Thalmor Justiciar and a Stormcloak warrior enter my little hamlet, side by side!" A table was set for them, laying upon it dried meats, bread, ale and cheese. It was a megre meal, but a filling one. Aüriel seemed not to enjoy it, but for Gharrok, it was the foods that he had been raised on. Lokir had been dragged out by Mralki and the old man for punishment by this time, most likely a beating of sorts.

"Why… why did you do that?" Aüriel mumbled, nibbling at a slice of eidar cheese wedged between some bread. "That man was after me, not you."

"Why would I leave you to fend for yourself? Aye, you could have easily bested him with your magic, but then in the eyes of the people, you would be the villain! The colour of your skin alone is enough to turn people against you. The do not need a proper reason to hate you."

"I see… Thank you…" Gharrok smiled warmly at her. In his peripherals, he spied cautious looks and wary glances at the duo. Some might even have anger behind them.

' _Perhaps it would be best if we sleep at her door tonight…'_

.

.

Aüriel sent for courier via Gharrok, requesting that they rendezvous with her to pick her up at down of the morrow.

"Are you certain that you will be alright?" Gharrok asked, standing at the door to her room. He was actually _concerned_ for her? A Thalmor agent?

"I think I should be alright, thank you." The High Elf mumbled, her eyes drooping. "Will you be gone in the morning?"

"You still have me axe." Gharrok shook his head, pointing to Icefang, still in her belt.  
"Oh, I did not-"

"Give it to me in the morning, I will wait until your escort arrives. Then, I must make for Windhelm."

"You are in your Stormcloak armour! Surely they would kill you!"

"I doubt it, for I have done no wrong. Sleep well." The pair bid each other a sleepy goodnight. Gharrok couldn't help but smile, watching the sleepy Elfen face. The inn was almost barren now, save for the bard and Lokir, who'd managed to stumble back inside. Him, and the others he was whispering with shot the traveller a look of hostility, some clearly showing of their weapons to him.

"Seems that I should stay up all night, lest they come into her room…" Gharrok sighed, sliding a chair in front of her door, sipping at some alto wine. Though she still had Icefang, he had that man's dagger, and his magika. One of the men went to stand up, but sat down again, seeing the look of death that Gharrok gave him.

"Doin' a good thing there laddie," The innkeeper said from his perch at the bar. "Folks round here don't welcome her kind."

"Does anyone n Skyrim?" Gharrok replied, much to the snickering of Lokir and his cronies.

"I fought those damn pointy-ears in the Great War boy, I know the horrors they can inflict. The Dominion rules the Empire now, and it is better of because of it." Gharrok nodded in respect to the old veteran, sitting by the fire for a couple of hours. Soon his eyes grew heavy, the people had gone to bed. Gharrok looked at the door to Aüriel's room one last time, before collapsing on the fur bed and drifting to sleep…

.

.

"…up lad," Someone mumbled, shaking the Sleeping Gharrok's shoulder. "Ser, there is a man outside, calling for Aüriel." Gharrok instinctively reached for Icefang, resting above his head, only to find she was not there. The she-elf still has custody on her.

"Thank you." Gharrok was on his feet, donning his armour. The chainmail shirt and padded leather vest were the easiest things to dress into, the long blue scarf was the hardest thing to wear. It was Nordic tradition that any straps or sloth should not be twisted before going into battle, lest you will meet your peril. The piercing air pierced his exposed skin as he stepped out into the sunlight. There waiting for him was a Bosmer and two horses. The light stepping of boots behind Gharrok turned to into the body of the she-elf standing next to him, hood up.

"Do you have everything you need?" Gharrok asked, looking deep into the abyssal pupils of her eyes.

"I should be alright." Aüriel nodded, returning the gaze. "Thank you… Gharrok Broken-Blade." A grin grew on her lips, a genuine, sincere smile. Gharrok's heart skipped a beat, kindling a flame inside him that he'd never felt before. It made him not want to part from her, spend more time with her. Feel her skin against his, their different coloured hair intertwining. Such thoughts, along with the way that Aüriel looked at Gharrok made his cheeks grow hot. Gharrok laughed, giving her a toothy grin, as if to hide the blush.

"It is I who should thank you! Were it not for you, I would already be in Sovengarde." The Wood Elf who was on the horse trotted up to the pair, nodding in respect.

"We meet again, Lord Broken-Blade," The Bosmer grinned.

"That we do, Prince Eladän. I am glad that you are well."

"As am I. It seems fate stayed Aüriel's hand and brought us together."

"There were some things that she _should_ have done though," Gharrok spat, still bitter about the events of the other day. Eladän tilted his head in confusion, much like a pup would at a strange noise.

"It was…" Aüriel mumbled. "It was Ancano. I was powerless to stop him."

"What did he do?" the Wood Elf asked, knowing full well the horrors that man liked to commit. Gharrok was silent, focusing on toeing the dirt with his boot. Grief and anger were flowing through him, to recall the events would cause them to erupt, and possibly get violent. Aüriel's mumblings were in audible, as if she wore the burden of her superior's actions around her neck.

"I understand." Eladän finally said. "That man is a wild horse, nigh untameable. I can only apologise for the things that he has done."

"Next time I see him, I will personally deliver his head to Lord Ulfric!" Aüriel gave Gharrok a concerned frown, but Eladän couldn't help but chuckle.

"I will not stop you! That man is a disgrace to the Dominion."

"Perhaps, in the meantime, there is something that you can do for me," Gharrok started.

' _Are you sure?'_ A voice in his head droned, like the piercing cry of nirnroot.

"What is it?" Aüriel looked at him, her pointy ears perking up.

"Now what if, and this is just a thought, we continued this little arrangement?"

"Meaning?" Eladan raised an eyebrow.

"This could be beneficial for us." Gharrok took the reigns of the spare horse, and lead it to where Aüriel could mount with ease. "When we meet in battle, or on the field, we spare each other?" Aüriel squinted on thought, whilst the Bosmer ran a hand through his hair. "This would just be among the three of us. Anymore and we would surely be caught!"

"Um… is that allowed, Justiciar?" the Bosmer asked.

"It is treasonous." Aüriel thought, mounting the steed. "Yet, the Divines have a strange way of bringing people together." Once on her horse, the three of them walked along the road towards the northwest, to Solitude.

"This will have to remain a secret." Eladän added, stating the obvious.

"You can trust me," The Skaal said, stopping on the edge of town. "Until we meet again, then." Gharrok began the long hike back to Windhelm. With that parting, three strangers on the opposing sides of a war, had become friends…


	10. Chapter 10: New Orders

"They did what!?" Galmar Stone-Fist roared, snarling like an enraged troll.  
"They tortured them," Gharrok answered. "One was given the chance to fight for his life, then kept alive while the axe in his head caused seizures." Gharrok had been all but tied to the chair he sat in for this impromptu interrogation. "One girl… they raped her. Over and over again." Galmar's cry rumbled through the Palace of Kings, throwing the wooden mug he drank from across the room. It shattered against the wall and a handmaiden scurried in to clean up the mess.

"Once more, if I may." Lord Ulfric Stormcloak said, looking at the young man thoughtfully. "Five city guards, and eight Stormcloak soldiers, led by you, were escorting Lord Thongvor Silver-Blood across The Reach."

"Correct," Gharrok answered. "We were inspecting the last shrine on the map, and then we were attacked."

"And you escaped from the Thalmor."

"How in Oblivion did you do that?" Galmar eyed him suspiciously. "No one has ever escaped the Thalmor!"

"I think the question that we should be asking is Lord Gharrok is in Windhelm, and not in Markarth," Ulfric said softly, but his voice boomed across the hall.

"Just as we were inspecting the shrine and praying, the Thalmor ambushed us."

"Did Lord Thangvor escape?"

"Aye," Gharrok answered. This is where he would have to turn truth to lies. He prayed to Stendarr that it was good enough. "We held them of as long as we could, but we were overcome. The Stormcloaks there were only Unblooded, they had not seen a real fight!" This made the two veterans nod sadly.

"So then they tortured and raped you?"

"Not me personally, but the others, yes. As the blade rose to end me, the Forsworn came from over the hill. In the chaos I escaped, running all night until I made it to Whiterun."

"So why did you not go back to Markarth?" Galmar asked, making the Skaal stiffen. Why _did_ he go back to Windhelm?

"...Because my identity was compromised." Gharrok finally said. "The operation was a stealth mission, but my face was known. My Lord, the Thalmor have a much greater hold in the Reach than we estimated! You must-"

"Enough!" Ulfric boomed, scowling at his subject before him. "You disobeyed my orders, and left you post, and your squadron without a leader! It was wrong of me to send a mere Bone-Breaker on such an important mission."

"Forgive me..." Gharrok hung his head in shame. Guilt flowed through his body like it were blood. For a Lord of a House as reputable as House Broken-Blade to cower like he did, it was shameful!

"However, I am willing to give you another chance," Ulfric sighed, waving away the servants.

"You would?" Gharrok's eyes lit up, much to the annoyance of Galmar.

"Ulfric, are you sure?" Galmar queried. "This whelk isn't worth his weight in shit! Just send him to the front lines and be done with it!"

"Watch your tongue!" Gharrok shot up, stepping up to the older man. They glared at each other, noses inches from touching. "You may be Ulfric's advisor, but you are nothing more that! Has anyone heard of House Stone-Fist? No, because it does not exist!"

"At least my family was not one full of cowards! What happened in Markarth when we stormed the gates and killed the Forsworn? Your father ran! What happened to you? You _ran_! You call yourself a Lord, but you're nothing more than a-"

" _Fus, ro!"_ The hall rumbled, sending the pair staggering.

"We are fighting a war here, not drinking tea." Ulfric glared at the pair. "You two are soldiers, now act like one!"

"Forgive me, my lord." Gharrok apologised sarcastically, bowing curtly to the older man, Galmar grunted, knowing full well how insincere the Skaal was.  
"Now, Gharrok." Ulfric continued. "Despite your misdeeds, your mission was not a total failure. This morning we received a vast donation from the Silver-Blood family. We have the proper funds to truly equip my soldiers and raise a true army. The reunification of Skyrim shall begin!" This seemed to lift Galmar's mood, a small smile growing on his face.

"So, shall I be going back to Markarth?"

"Nay, such an important mission should have been led by a proven general. One of my senior Snow-Hammers will continue what you started. Saldr shall be the first mate, followed by Bramm." Gharrok was disappointed that his chance to prove himself had been cut so short, but as the expression went _All is fair in love and war._ And this certainly was war.

"What will become of me?" Gharrok asked, praying not to be sent to the front lines. A warrior he was, but he had never seen a true battlefield, where armies of thousands clashed together in horrible combat.

"You will return to the Nightblades," Ulfric answered. "The reports Ralof has sent me indicated that he is in need of his first mate again." A feather light joy made Gharrok's heart skip a beat. The Nightblades was the first squadron that he had ever been placed in. Together, he and Ralof had risen through their ranks, and now stood at the head of the raiding party. "Head to Morthal, that is where they are ambushing Imperial wagons coming from Solitude. As Gharrok rose to leave, he placed several amulets to Talos on the table.

"I had not the opportunity to recover their bodies. This was all I was able to get." Ulfric gave the Skaal a sympathetic nod and patted him on the shoulder.

"Thank you, my friend. You've done their families a great service. Talos guide you,"

.

.

It was normal that on a windy day, sub-zero winds would blow up from the harbour. Today's winds were particularly chilly. Despite Nords and Skaal having evolved to live in cold climates, Gharrok still shivered, rubbing his arms for warmth. It was times like these where he would pray for guidance, and blessings from the All-Maker. It was habitual for Gharrok to thumb the blade of Icefang on occasion, as if to centre him, calm him. He did so now, except-

"Huh? Oh no, oh Gods! For the love of Mara! Fuck!" Gharrok had forgotten to ask Aüriel to return Icefang. The Elf still had it! "No. No, no, no… All-Maker protect me from my father's wrath." Roland Broken-Blade, first of his name, was from a long line of chieftains of the Skaalish people. However, it was his sister that became the leader, leaving him free to explore Tamriel. Roland arrived in Skyrim with only the armour on his back, and his sword and axe. Through his adventures into ancient crypts, slaying giants and bandits, to investing in trade and businesses, he amassed a fortune. With his newfound wealth, and relations with the Greater Houses, they anointed him a Lordship, and gave him the barony of Ivarstead to watch over. Icefang and Wraithbane, the two weapons he wielded, became legendary icons for House Broken-Blade. When Gharrok was 18, he had been given the honour of wielding Icefang as he began his adventures across Skyrim. Gharrok felt as if his father's strength was with him when he rode into battle wielding that axe. The Skaal stumbled into Candlehearth Hall, almost fainting in shock.

"Welcome to Candlehearth Hall, what can I-"

"Mead. The strong stuff." Gharrok grunted, thumping into a barstool. A tankard of Honningbrew Reserve slid across the bar, Gharrok chugged it down, placing a few Septims on the table. "Another." How could he have forgotten Icefang!? His most treasures possession! In Skyrim, your weapon was your life. In Solstheim, it was your soul. Losing such a precious weapon was a disaster.

"Rough day?" A female voice said, sliding into the chair next to him.

"Hello Hermir," Gharrok nodded, not looking up from the drink. Hermir Strong-Heart had joined the Stormcloaks at the same time that Gharrok and Ralof had. She was a competent fighter, but her skill with the forge had much more potential. So she spends her days forging weapons and armour for the Stormcloak Rebels.

"What seems to be troubling you?" She asked. "I do not see Icefang on your side." Gharrok only grunted, slumping against the bar.

"Wait right here," she purred, slipping out of the inn.

"I _have_ to get her back." Gharrok mumbled, a fire of determination sparking deep in his soul. "I can make this right, and I will!" it was at that moment that Hermir returned, carrying a wrapped package.

"Open it," She ordered. Under the cloth was a sword. Shining steel gleaming in the candlelight.

"It's beautiful," Gharrok smiled at her. "Yours?"

"Yeah, I just finished it." Gharrok inched the blade from its scabbard. Examining the glint of the metal.

"This is unlike any steel I have seen before. Where was it made?"

"I made this on my last trip to Whiterun," the lass answered, inching her stool closer to his. Gharrok's eyes widened, realising how valuable the gift was.

"Skyforge steel." Gharrok gasped, looking at Hermir. "This is… Thank you! How can I ever repay you?" In truth, he could afford ten Skyforge steel swords easily, but Gharrok was a humble man, not using his lordship as a weapon against the people.

"Perhaps you can buy me another drink…"

.

.

Drinks turned to snacks. Snacks turned to laughter. Laughter turned to more drinks. It was mid-afternoon by the time he was finished.

"This has been a welcome break from fighting, but I must be on my way." Gharrok slid out from his chair, needing a few moments to find his balance.

"War calls?" Hermir asked, looking at her friend.

"Aye, I am to meet with Ralof and the Nightblades."

"Be careful, will you not?" she looked genuinely concerned. Gharrok smiled his toothy grin at her, filled with youthful overconfidence.

"With your sword, not even General Tullius could stop me!" As the Skaal turned to leave, the smith yanked on his hair, pulling him back. As he spun to meet her, she planted a quick kiss on his lips. After a couple of moments, Gharrok separated from her, very confused.

"Be careful, okay?" She winked, watching him nod and leave, dazed.

.

.

Managing to bring himself back to reality, Gharrok strode out of the huge city gates and across the lone stone bridge. The winds had calmed, and the sun shone through the clouds. Across the floe lay the harbour, where the Skaal spied city guards abusing the Argonian workers, again. Such sights saddened him. Why must they live segregated and discriminated? It was not right. All men and women deserved to live free and equal. Though, perhaps only had such views because of his upbringing. In the village he was raised in, he grew up a half-breed, half Skaal and half Nord, side by side with Elves, Argonians, Imperials, and Khajiit. All religions were accepted there. All Nine of the Divines, the lesser Daedra, and the All-Maker. One thing that House Broken-Blade objected to about the rebellion was the policy of racial degradation and discrimination. There was no benefit to it! Only look to the Third Era Cyrodiil, was life any better?

"Greetings kinsman," a guard nodded in respect as they crossed paths. "Make Skyrim proud. This is our homeland!" Yes, Skyrim is the homeland of the Nords, but what's wrong with others living and prospering here? Multiculturalism makes society stronger. This issue was the sole reason that Roland Broken-Blade, Gharrok's father was not in the position Galmar Stone-Fist sat in. That, and he abandoned Jarl Ulfric shortly after the Markarth Incident, and the atrocities that were committed against the native Reachmen.

"Looking to but a horse?" An Altmer asked, looking up from the troughs he was filling with hay. "Sometimes the difference between life an' death is a swift stead!"

"I have a horse already, my friend!" Gharrok smiled. "How has business been, Ulundil?"

"Lord Broken-Blade!" The High Elf bowed to the Skaal. "It is an honour to see you, as always!"

"How is my steed?" Gharrok reached into his coin purse to pay the man for housing his steed. "It is time that I leave."

"I will have her saddled in but a moment!" The happy-go-lucky High Elf dropped what he was doing and ran to through the horse stalls to where they joined onto the house. These were the pens for the horses of the Lords and Ladies, more food, warm pens, more care, Ulindil knew how to please the upper classes. As the saddle was strapped on and the steed led out, its eyes seemed to light up.

"Hey girl," Gharrok almost purred, resting his head against the horse's long face. He ran his hands through her snow-white mane, taking in her scent. Roland Broken-Blade owned a mighty steed from his adventuring days, and Gharrok learnt to ride on its offspring. The two were inseparable since. Agr̃o snorted, nibbling on her owner's side-lock, as if it were cud.

"Such a beautiful steed!" Ulundil remarked, smoothing out the bumps in her reddish brown pelt. "Where did you purchase her?"

"She is the offspring of my father's horse!" Gharrok grunted, mounting the steed.

"A lucky man, you are! Safe travels!"

.

.

To ride alone on the roads of Skyrim was once a safe thing to do. Ever since Ulfric had taken up arms in rebellion, bandits and highwaymen plagued the roads, reaving and killing travellers. Every shadow along the path was the potential attack, and Gharrok kept a hand ready to shoot bolts of lightning, should the need arise. Thankfully, something else must have caught their attention, as Gharrok was not the victim of the attack. Through the light snowfall, Lake Yorgrim stretched on their left, the bubbling of the river keeping the pair company. The smell of smoke filled his nostrils. Not the smell of wood, or cooking, but-

"Flesh," He'd smelt it a thousand times before, having battled mages before. Death by fire was one of the cruellest fates. Gharrok reached for Icefang, only to remember her absence. They hurried past the mill and over the hill. On the other side of the rise was a Khajiit caravan. The traders were dead, the women gone, the wagon in flames.

"Bastards." Gharrok spat, cursing the people responsible. How could people profit on the murdering and suffering of others? Where was the merit? The virtue? Agr̃o whinnied, shifting beneath him uncomfortably. No doubt the criminals that did this were still in the area. Gharrok tapped her sides with his boots, pushing her onward. The gentle trot they were going was now a fast gallop, as both were eager to escape the stench of the burning fur and flesh. The snowy wind swept through his hair, the trees whizzing past. Gharrok's journey was uneventful, bar the caravan. Dusk had come by the time they had arrived at Dawnstar. Agr̃opanted lightly from the sprint, but Gharrok pushed on. Dawnstar was an Imperial controlled port. For a Stormcloak to stay there alone would be suicide. The Nightblades were not like other Stormcloaks. Most of Ulfric's 'army', was no more than angry farmers given a sword and told to kill. The men that Ralof and Gharrok commanded were skilled warriors, brave and cunning. Each had their own reason to fight, each their own grievance to settle. Most of them were open to racial equality, and planned to use their influence to persuade the Jarls to welcome foreigners.

"We drink to our youth, to days come and gone," Gharrok started to sing. His mother had taught him to sing, and she was once a famous songstress.

"When the age of oppression is now nearly done. We'll drive out the Empire from this land that we own…."

.

.

The two moons were almost at their zenith when Gharrok and Agr̃o trotted through the marsh. The Nightblades were experts of concealment, they knew how to make their camps look almost invisible. Gharrok knew how to follow the signs they left behind to find the camp.

"Halt, horseman!" A voice boomed in the night. Gharrok complied, gently pulling back on the reigns. Agr̃o grunted, drinking the waters around him. "Our eyes and bows are aimed at you. State your buisness!" Ahead of him lay a grove of trees, the undergrowth thick around it. A naturat fort, though quite the obvious place to set up camp.

"I can see you from here, Jarad!" Gharrok called, recognising the owner of the voice. "Put down your weapon before you hurt yourself!" An arrow splashed into the mud an arm's length away from Agr̃o, causing her to buck in fright.

"Last chance stranger, the next one will-"

"Are you daft, boy? It is me, Lord Gharrok, of House Broken-Blade, you halfwit!" Gharrok could hear the mumbling of the watchmen in the trees.

"By Talos, it is! Welcome back, m'lord!" The shrubbery parted to let the han on horeback through, as soon as they entered the camp they were greeted like heros. Agr̃o was washed down and Gharrok embraced by his shield brothers and sisters.

"Summon Snow-Hammer Ralof," Someone shouted. "Captain Gharrok has rejoined us!"

"Where is he!?" Ralof's voice boomed, the man storming from his tent. "Wjere is that fat as a horker, piece of troll shit?" Ralof and Gharrok locked eyes, and Ralof shoved the men out of the way to get to the Lord. Gharrok gulped, seeing murder in Ralof's eyes. "You! How dare you sully me with your presence after you abandoned us!" Ralof struck him across the face with an open hand, the unexpected blow stunning Gharrok. Recovering instantly, he went for his sword. For a lowborn to strike a highborn? People had been hung for less!

"How _dare_ you!" Gharrok roared, slowly drawing his weapon threatiningly. "You will pay for-" Suddenly he froze, unable to move. Ralof's arms were around him, squeezing the aris from his lungs in a tight hug.

"We thought you were dead…" He mumbled, almost tearfully. "By Stendarr, things have not been the same without you." Gharrok dropped the sword, returning the embrace, much to the cheering of the other Nightblades.

"Forgive me, my friend." Gharrok mumbled back. "T'was Ulfric's orders, not my own."

"Crack open the ale, start a song!" Someone anounced,with a chorous of ayes and sinning followed.

"What did Jarl Ulfric want?" Ralof asked, handing his friend a mug of mead.

"He wanted support from the other Greater Houses," Gharrok answered, after clinking cups with his friends. "House Silver-Blood, to be exact."

"Smart move," nodded Ralof. "They are probably the most influencial family in the Reach. Damn rich too,"

"They also support the Stormcloaks," Gharrok observed that the members of the Nigtblades were happier than usual, proudly displaying themselves. This was unusual. "Has something happened in my absence? They are acting diffrently." Ralof nodded, unclipping the warhapper that hung on his back and passed it to Gharrok.

"Remember the one I had before?"

"Aye. It was iron," Gharrok nodded. "What metal is this? It is…"

"Mithril." Ralof answered. "The Nords in Bruma are siding with us, and have been sending up weapons." Gharrok whistled, admiring the new weapon. Most of the weapons that the Nightblades had been using prior to his mission in Markarth were homemade bows and iron, looted from the enemy. Ralof had been lucky enough to afford cheep steel.

"And the armour?"

"The Silver-Bloods," Before, the Nightblades were donned in leather and repurposed Imperial armour, with the colours and markings changed. Now they were clad in professionally made chainmail shirts, with plated bracers and pauldrons, protective gauntlets and scaled helmets.

"It warms my heart to see that they will be able to properly fend for themselves," Gharrok smiled genuinely. When the Nightblades were first formed, the Rebellion was severely underfunded, hence the reason for the terrible conditions of their equipment. Many Nords had become casualties because of that fact, but no longer! Imperial plating was no match for mithril, orcish, and hardened steel, be it an axe, sword, or arrowhead. "Now the Imperial dogs can _really_ feel the pain from the Nightblades!" Their comrades cheered boisterously, pushing each other around to show their might.

"Oblivion take the lot of 'em!" Ralof joined in, chugging the last of his mead. He eyed Gharrok up and down, frowning. "Something seems off about you. Has something happened?" Gharrok sighed, pulling a knife from his belt and approaching the roasting spit.

"It is… not something I would like to talk about in public," the Skaal mumbled, slicing strips from the mutton. As he cut, his mind flashed back to Bjorn, the Stormcloak whose throat was slit by Ancano. Gharrok nearly buckled, dropping everything.

"Gharrok!" Jarrad managed to catch him as he fainted. "What ails him?" The celebrations hushed, unsure what was happening.

"No doubt he is weary from his journey," Ralof put Gharrok's arm over his shoulder. "Set up his bed in my tent, double time!"

.

.

Gharrok came to on a stretcher, covered in blankets. Ralof and a redheaded woman stood over him.

"Did you see what happened to him?" Astrid asked, using her healing magic to sooth him.

"One moment he was slicing mutton, the next, he collapsed." Ralof answered. "I do not think this is the thing that can be fixed by medicine."

"I am alright," Gharrok shrugged the woman of, placing his feet on the ground. "How long have I-"

"A minute," Ralof chuckled. "You are getting soft, m'lord!"

"Funny," Gharrok sipped from a cup of water as the other Nightblades peeked in, checking he was all right. Gharrok rubbed his eyes, giving them the thumbs up.

"Gharrok," Ralof started, pulling up a chair. "Something happened in The Reach. If you fainting does not tell me so, then the absence of Icefang does," many knew of the legendary axe, and many were envious of it. Ralof knew the bond Gharrok had with her. The only time that they were apart was to bathe. The Skaal ate, trained, and slept with it by his side. Gharrok groaned, waving Jarrad and the others away.

"Leave us," Gharrok ordered. All left, bar Ralof and Astrid. "You two, Astrid."  
"No," She shook her head. "I need to make sure you are stable." Astrid, like Hermir, had joined the Stormcloak Rebels at the same time as Gharrok and Ralof. The three of them became inseparable, relying on each other for their skill in combat. In battle there was ne'er a more deadly trio then them. But the feelings Astrid had for Gharrok were deeper than just friendship, she cared for him more than that.

"Fine," Gharrok grunted. He told the tale in full detail: the mission, who they were escorting, the Thalmor attack, how they treated the prisoners. Astrid was almost in tears, appalled at how their comrades had been treated.

"I am so sorry," she mumbled, placing a worried hand on his shoulder. "I hope they can rest in peace." Ralof raised an eyebrow. It was common knowledge that no one escaped from the Thalmor. They never released captives, only enslaving them or executing them.

"Very few try to escape the Thalmor," Ralof started. "Even fewer are successful. So why were you successful?" Gharrok had to lie to his friends, he had known this for a long time. To tell them the truth would result with a knife in his gut. That, or he'd by flayed and hung for all to see on the walls of Windhelm. Gharrok bought as much time as he could for himself, taking long slow swigs from the mug of water in his hands.

"It was a massacre," Gharrok answered. "As they lifted the blade to finish me, the Forsworn pressed down upon the Elves. Amidst the chaos, a managed to cover myself in the blood of Bjorn, the one who had his throat cut, and Hekja, the girl who was raped. I played dead, hoping they wouldn't find me. When the sun had set, I got up and ran. I didn't stop till I made it to Whiterun."

"Ysmir's beard!" Ralof gawked. "You poor bastard."

"Can I do something to comfort you?" Astrid asked, resting her head on his shoulder.

"This alone is more than enough," Gharrok answered, putting an arm around her and resting his head on hers. "I thank you though." Ralof smiled to see that his friend was comfortable, but at the same time felt the stab of jealousy, being so close to that woman.

"You two should get some rest," Ralof eventually cleared his throat. "We have an ambush at sunrise, past Dragon Bridge." Astrid nodded, bidding them goodnight. Her hand lingered on Gharrok's, slipping away into the night.

"It is my fault," Gharrok muttered, after moments of silence.

"Excuse me?"

"They died because of me, all of them! If I had called a retreat, or ordered a shield wall earlier then-"

"Stop it," Ralof snapped, shaking his friend by the shoulder. "I understand how you feel, about Bjorn and Hekja. It is-"

"That poor girl!" Gharrok wailed, loosing his calm demeanour. "All that suffering. And Mallas! Why did they not just kill him? It is my fault that he suff-" Ralof grabbed Gharrok's chin, squishing his cheeks.

"Look at me, _now,_ " Ralof scowled at him, dead serious. "No matter what you think, the results would have been the same. They would have died, and you loved, just be thankful that the mission was a success. You cannot blame yourself for the actions of others, the Divines will judge them in the end."

"I guess…"

"Do not guess, do! Thank the Divines and your All-Maker that you survived so that you can carry their legacy! Do not let the fallen be a burden on you, but push you forward. Let their dreams be the reason you get on your feet in the morning, their hopes what makes you run towards the enemy. Let their souls deliver your foes to Oblivion!" Ralof released the Lord, slumping onto his own cot. "How do you feel every time one of the Nightblades die? Yes, you and I plan every attack to the smallest detail, thinking of all the possibilities. Yet I still wonder, ' _What if we had planned things differently? What if Jarrad, or another archer, was somewhere where they could provide better covering fire? What if they were at the rear of the attack?'_ But it matters not. They are already dead. If not them, then someone else, possibly more! If you fall down and cry for them, their sacrifice was for nothing! Let them be in your prayers, but _never_ stop for fighting." His speech over, the sound feet shuffled away from the tent, no doubt Astrid stood by to listen. Ralof was not one for speeches, or wisdom. But when he had things to say, they yielded the results he wanted. The Skaal nodded, the weight of grief melting into a fire of determination.

"Thank you, my friend." Gharrok smiled, laying down again. "Your words have not fallen on deaf ears. I shall fight for them as much as I!"  
"Have you not helped me in the past, shield-brother?" Ralof grinned back, blowing out a candle. "Next time though, let me have Astrid, would you? You do not even fancy her!"


	11. Chapter 11: The Letter

Gharrok often had sleepless nights before a skirmish. This night was no exemption. As dawn began to rise, the Skaal woke Ralof and the rest of the camp. It was a group effort to prepare; some cooked breakfast, others fed and saddled the horses, others sent messenger pigeons out, notifying the nearby Stormcloak groups of the mission. Their job would be to collect the loot from the attack, and the fallen Stormcloaks, if any. Gharrok ran his weapons over the grindstone, honing the edge on his throwing knives. The sword that Hermir had gifted unto him was beautiful, and would serve him well.

"If only you were Icefang…" Gharrok sighed to himself.

"A bit early for a sigh so heavy," Astrid smiled, crouching down next to him and oiling the point on her spear. "What troubles you?"

"Nothing," Gharrok answered, stuffing the knives into his belt. "Last night I did not sleep very much." Astrid gazed at him, concern shaping the frown on her face.

"Perhaps you should sit this one out. Someone must remain here to guard the camp."

"No chance in Oblivion!" Gharrok scoffed, sheathing his sword. "The day I miss a mission with the Nightblades is the day that Oblivion takes me!" Astrid mumbled concerns under her breath, watching the Lord console and motivate his comrades.

.

.

The convoy crossed the ancient stone bridge and left the hamlet. Gharrok quickly counted the numbers: four wagons, each manned by that number of guards. Men on horseback scouted ahead and protected the rear of the enterage. Gharrok and Jarrad stealthily moved through the scrub to where the other Nightblades lay in waiting.

"How many?" Ralof hissed.

"Twenty," Gharrok answered, as Jarrad whistled birdsong of the numbers to the Stormcloak ambushers. Gharrok heard the all too familiar four long, low note song, and slipped on his shield. As the countdown began, he observed the oblivious prey. The scouts were cautious, but the men on the wagons were tired and hung-over, they didn't stand a chance... Bowstrings twanged, arrows loosed, and the Nightblades flung themselves onto the Imperials. Astrid's spear thrusted into a cavalryman's gut, and Gharrok hacked through a stunned soldier, slicing though his chest and breaking his neck with a punch to the fact with his shield. Parry, slash, block, stab. Four actions and many more actions continued in an almost random pattern as the Nightblades cut a swathe through the Imperial line. A maniacal Redguard charged at Gharrok and Astrid, swinging two swords in frenzy. The flurry of swings and ripostes were to fast for either of them to find an opening. This man was as strung as an ox, never tiring. Astrid held the Redguard off while the Skaal conjured up bolts of lightning in his hand, zapping the man with the energised plasma until he dropped the blades. Astrid gave Gharrok an impressed look as he ended the man's suffering with a throwing knife to the throat. The Skaal returned her look with a wry grin and leapt back into combat.

.

.

"It would seem that your fancy magic certainly helped us," Astrid chuckled, finishing the bindings on a soldier that had yielded. "A rare happening."

"Mock me as you do, but who is it that always tends to the wounded?" Gharrok retorted, cleaning the blood from his weapon. "Me and my _fancy_ magic!"

"Speaking of which," Ralof wheezed, limping over to them. "I think I could use some-" Ralof crashed into the wagon, slumping to the ground.

"Ysmir's beard!" Gharrok gasped, rushing to his side. As well as several cuts and bruises on his body, an arrow protruded from his thigh, and a knife was planted in his side. "Whom was the one that wounded you?" Ralof grunted, nodding at a wiry Nord.

"You traitor, Oblivion take you!" Astrid roared, grabbing him by the lapels and shaking the life from him. Gharrok watched silently, drawing the knife and arrow from his friend and inspecting them.

"You will be relieved to know that the arrow and blade were neither poisoned or enchanted," Gharrok hummed, pushing orbs of healing light into his leader. "Both weapons were whole when retrieved. You shall be fit to fight with plenty of rest and regular healing sessions."

"Thank you, Gharrok." Ralof grasped Gharrok's arm, the chainmail digging into his arm. The Skaal helped his friend up, letting Ralof use him as a crutch. "Jarrad,

what are our takings?"

"Food and medicinal supplies," the archer answered. "The dossiers and forms we found tell us that they have taken a position in that old fort, Fort Amol."

"They have a position in Eastmarch!? Damnit!"

"When our brothers and sisters arrive to take this to Windhelm, have them show Jarl Ulfric these papers." Gharrok instructed.

"Yes m'lord! What is to be done to the survivors?"

"Kill them," Ralof barked. Jarrad drew his dagger, ready to slit the prisoner's throats.

"Hold a moment," Gharrok announced, letting Astrid take care of Ralof. The Skaal approached the prisoners, looking at each of them in turn. Many of the entourage were Nords, possibly native to this land. Gharrok sat down in from of them, looking them in the eye.

"Where are you from?" he asked.

"Dawnstar," one answered.

"And you, lad?" Gharrok asked the wiry one that Astrid assaulted.  
"Bruma,"

"Both beautiful places, in their own ways. Did you hear what the archer called me?" the men were silent, keen on not talking to the enemy. "He called me 'M'lord'. Do you not see what that means? Both highborn and lowborn are side-by-side, fighting together!"

"Wot's that gotta do with anything?" One of them spat.

"What that means is unity. Men and women of all classes coming together. That is what the Stormcloaks stand for. To fight for your homeland is nothing short of honourable, friends! You can be free to do what ever, worship whomever, _be_ whoever! Jarl Ulfric is a man of honour. Should you join our cause, he will see to it that your treason is forgiven, and your service rewarded!"

"How can I be accused for treason if I am not native to this land?" the Nord from Bruma retorted. "I have no ties to this damn province."

"Nor do I," Gharrok admitted. "I am one of the few Skaal whom lives on the mainland of Tamriel. That aside, you have a chance to live a new life, a free one. Will you take it?" Gharrok drew his knife and slit their bindings, as a token of his trust. The man from Dawnstar shook Gharrok's hand with an iron grip.

"Thank you, my lord." he smiled. "I will fight for you!" Several of the other Nords, realising that the only other way out of this situation would be in a bodybag, they accepted.

"Good lads," Gharrok smiled. "When the others arrive to take this stuff to Windhelm, they go too."

"Kill the others." Ralof grumbled, hobbling towards where the horses were tied off. "Gharrok, Astrid, we shall ride ahead."

.

.

"Was it wise to let them have the rest of the day to themselves?" Gharrok asked, helping his friend into a chair.

"Why not? Astrid asked, pulling a stool up so Ralof could rest his leg. "Today is a day to celebrate!"  
That it is," Ralof groaned, slumping into the chair. Astrid, being the only women in the party, as per Nordic etiquette, poured the drinks for the men. "Not only was there no casualties today, we gained some valuable soldiers!"

"Not only that, yet tonight is your birthnight!" Gharrok handed each of them a tankard. "Tonight, we celebrate!" They clanked mugs, chugging back the mead. It was a little Nightblade tradition that, should someone have his or her birthnight whilst on a mission, they prepared a small celebration. A roast of their favourite animal and a keg of their favourite alcohol were present, along with song and dance. Tonight would be especially gleeful, yet a heavy weight hung in Gharrok's heart. Roland was still unaware of his weapon's absence. Telling him would be one of the hardest things the young Lord would have to do in his life. Yet for his friends, Gharrok would keep a smile on his face.

"Hey," A sultry voice purred, stroking his shoulder. "You look a little sad. Want me to cheer you up?" The voice owner, a tavern wench, came to his front, bending over so their heads were level. Gharrok's eyes couldn't but catch a glance of her obviously pushing her breasts into his face. Ralof gave the Skaal a cheeky grin, unlike Astrid, who raised her eyebrow in disapproval.

"I thank you, but I'm not interested." Gharrok smiled. The whore grunted, walking of to pleasure another.

"it is not often a man turns down a chance to fuck," Ralof nudged the Skaal. "Perhaps he has another in his thoughts?" Astrid's eyes lit up at the prospect.

"Perhaps we could discuss _your_ affections!" Gharrok retorted. Astrid's eyes lit up even further. Whenever she was around, Ralof refused to discuss the subject.

"Who is she?" Astrid chimed.

"N-nobody!" Ralof stuttered, his cheeks flaring red. "You would not know her, anyway."

"Oh, Ral, you have less courage than a gobbo!" A gobbo was a variety of goblin found in the south of Skyrim, where they had slowly crawled up from Cyrodill. "Be a man and tell us." Ralof glanced towards his shield-brother, wishing for the same support he had given him while they were in the heat of battle. When there was banter among the Nightblades,, Gharrok was one of the ones who got the shit end of the stick, he laughed at how the tables had turned. The Skaal knew whom his friend truly had feelings for. It was none other than Astrid, the red-headed warmaiden.

"Well, her home is in Riverwood." Ralof admitted, mumbling under his voice. The pair were both born and raised in the town, so his statement held true.

"Is it… Camilla?" Astrid guessed.

"No, not her." Ralof answered.

"Delphine? Oh, Is it Sigrid!"

"Maybe it is not a woman, but rather a male?" Gharrok suggested in a teasing manner.

"Fuck off, Gharrok," Ralof snorted. "Why would I want to be a damned polesitter?" "The lunchtime commotion at the inn was cut short, several heads turning to the trio of Stormcloaks with anger in their eyes.

"My apologies," Gharrok stood up, bowing slightly to the crowd. "My friend is not from these parts, and the alcohol has taken his mind!" after moments of hostile stares, the bard's drum restarted, and people went back to their business.

"Ralof!" Astrid hissed. "You cannot say such things! People get offended!" Since the end of the Thirty Year War, the Aldmeri dominion demanded that all holds in Tamriel abolish their laws on marriage between species and same sex. With all change, there were people that welcomed it, as well as people who resented it. In Gharrok's mind, he was glad. All men and women should be equal. Though he'd only bedded women, there was the occasional time where in the right light, a man could be attractive…

"Astrid is right," Gharrok sighed. "You must hold your tongue in future, less you anger someone that they strike you."

"But-"

"But nothing." Gharrok growled, drawing close to him. "You never know whom you may be offending." Ralof grunted, realising that arguing was futile. During the awkward silence that followed, a young Bosmer caught the Skaal's eye. He looked to be not older than seventeen, and the badge and sash he wore signified that he was a courier. After looking to each of the groups seated at various tables, and asking the innkeeper, the young man approached them.

"Excuse me, might any of you be acquainted with Lord Gharrok, of House Broken Blade?"

"That would be me," Gharrok answered. "What business do you have?"

"I have been looking for you," the Elf answered. "I was sent to deliver this to your hands." From the Bosmer's satchel he produced a package and a letter. Though he had already been paid for his services, politeness dictated that Gharrok give him a small sum, as to compensate for any troubles that he had. Gharrok handed him a few Septims, and looked to what now lay in his lap.

"Were you expecting something?" Ralof asked.

"Nay," Gharrok answered, untying the string that held the cloth in place. As the cloth fell away, Gharrok gasped.

"No way…" The weight of the object slipped into his palm, its grip of dried bristleback hide finding home in the Skaal's grip. "Icefang."

.

.

"By Talos," Astrid gasped, watching her beloved's face flow with emotions, as his treasured weapon was held close. "The Nine favour you this day!"

"I will drink to that," Ralof burped, chugging back another mouthful of ale. "Thought you said that it was lost!"

"I did," Gharrok mumbled, reading the yellow parchment.

.

.

 _Lord Gharrok, of House Broken-Blade._

 _._

 _A month has passed since I had the honour of meeting you. The circumstances were less than conventional, though I am still glad for the opportunity. I cannot apologise enough for forgetting to return your family heirloom, Icefang, on the day we parted. I would have turned back and handed it to you, but my pride and embarrassment forbade such actions. You needn't worry, I kept it, I mean HER, in pristine condition. The smith was impressed with the axe's craftsmanship, and wanted the opportunity to sharpen and polish her again. I must also enquire about the enchantment that Icefang has upon her. The other Justiciars examined it, having searched my packs upon return to the Embassy. Not one of them had seen such a strange, or powerful spell placed across the weapon._

.

Gharrok's thumb traced the edge of the blade habitually. Though he kept it sharp, it almost never cut his flesh when gliding across the surface. The enchantment in question was something that he knew very little about. Roland, Gharrok's father had told him that the Skaal used very ancient and powerful techniques, drawing power from the All Maker and the earth itself.

 _._

 _Upon my return to the Embassy, I have found that Ancano, the Justiciar that so horribly mistreated your comrades, had reported my defiance and 'acts to usurp leadership' to Lady Elenwen. For punishment, I have been restricted to guard duty in Solitude. I was disheartened at the news, but found that Eladän, the Bosmeri prince, was also sentenced to a similar fate for getting into a fight with about how to treat some Talos worshippers. This time will be long, and wearisome, but at least we are away from the field of battle. A positive in this overall negative time ahead is that I will be able to master the Restoration spell that you taught me!"_

 _._

Aüriel's handwriting was immaculate, neat and having all the flourishes that a lady should write with. Gharrok could hear her soft voice in his head, whispering the words to him. It soothed his weary soul, setting his heart aflutter. Astrid and Ralof noticed this, seeing the obvious blushing on his face.

.

 _You do not need to worry about the Dominion knowing your whereabouts. Eladän has connections to the Thieves' Guild in Valenwood, and they contacted their branch in Skyrim to track you down. I swear by the Eight that this will be kept secret. His majesty has grown rather fond of you, as have I. This land is cold, and hard. I had grown to loathe it. Yet, here you are, a paragon among the rabble. Your mercy and kindness has shown us the true nature of not only the Nords, but the land of Skyrim itself. This land IS cold and hard, but it is very beautiful. The seas may be haunted, but along the coast you find the most beautiful shells. The sky may be cloudy, but at night, the spirits dance in the sky. The people are tough, stubborn, and brutish. But they have honour. There is an unspoken code of chivalry and comradery. You have shown us this, despite being, by all rights, your enemy. Even in the midst of battle, you act with compassion. I would hope to learn of this more._

 _._

 _I do hope we meet again, and that you receive Icefang._

 _._

 _.Akatosh keep you,_

 _._

 _Aüriel Dawnstone_

 _._

 _._

"So," Ralof announced, nudging the Skaal back into the present. "Are you going to tell us her name?"

"I-it is nothing of the sorts!" Gharrok stumbled, flustered at being discovered. The Skaal quickly stuffed the letter into his breeches, away from prying eyes. Gharrok spied the courier slurping on a bowl of soup, happy to be at rest. Gharrok fished around in his pack for his coin purse and ran out the door. Tharrok was taken aback by the cold, stinking afternoon. With his arm he covered his face to shield his eyes from the glaring sun, and the noisome swamp gasses. Just down the mud path lay Thaumaturgist's Hut.

"Spell tomes of healing," Gharrok announced, barging the door open. "You have them?" The bored looking woman standing behind the counter nodded and slumped the heavy book on the bench. Gharrok slammed a few too many Septims down and hastened back to the warmth of the inn. There he found a desk in the corner, picked up a quill and paper, and began.

.

 _Lady Aüriel,_

 _._

 _I am elated that you wrote me. To have my beloved Icefang at my side once again means more than you will ever know. The Broken-Blade name was built on the gold that axe brought in. I can say with all honesty that the enchantment placed upon her is a mystery to me. Never have I delved deep into such things. All that I do know is that Icefang, and her sister, a sword named Wraithbane, were forged using an ancient and secret Skaalish technique. There is no written records of the methods but I know only this: The enchantments are said to draw power from the All-Maker itself. Though in reality, such a thing is impossible, for how can you draw power from an entity that exists in all things?_

 _._

 _I must admit that my feelings upon hearing the news of your demotion are mixed. I feel sorry for you, but at the same time I am glad. I am glad that you and Eladän are safe from any imminent danger. Solitude is possibly the safest place to be in Skyrim, and I wish you the best possible stay. When I am in Haarfingar I shall sit you down for a meal._

 _._

 _In all honesty, I am surprised that a Justiciar does not know any spells from the School of Restoration. This tome has all the information that you will ever need to know about healing spells. Be that as it may, I can only sympathise. The arcane arts take years to truly master. I was blessed to have Magicka flowing through my veins. If I had a Septim for every time a spell saved mine, or a friend's life, I would be a very rich man!_

 _._

 _My travels across the Province had led me far and wide, and I have encountered many of your kind. The Thalmor, and even Altmer that were not apart of the Dominion, were hostile and uptight towards all Nords, even when we did not bear the Bear of Eastmarch on our breast, as I would in my war armour. They were cantankerous and knavish, truly dishonourable and unpleasant behaviours. I try my hardest not to profile people based on the pigment, the texture of their skin, or colour of their blood, but years of witnessing the same behaviours in a wide variety of subjects makes the stereotype sink in. I thank Talos and the All-Maker that you have shown me how untrue my thoughts were._

 _._

"Gharrok!" Ralof said from across the inn, turning to his friend. "What in Talos' name are you writing? Your memoirs?"

"It is your turn to pay for drinks," Astrid cooed, approaching him silently and resting her hand on his shoulder. Gharrok gasped, snatching up the papers and hiding them from prying eyes.

"I shall join you soon," Gharrok nodded, waving her away. "This matter is urgent, I am afraid."

.

 _This contact of yours, I shall have to find them the next time I am in the Reach. Should I need to write you again, I will have use of him. I am trusting you to not have my secrets or location revealed. Not a word of military intelligence shall come from these letters, only friendly words between a Lord and Lady._

 _._

 _I pray to the Nine that you and Prince Eladän are kept safe. Should fate have it, I may see you again._

 _._

 _All-Maker keep you,_

 _._

 _Lord Gharrok, House Broken-Blade_

 _._

 _._

The Skaal smiled contently to himself as he wrapped the tome and letter in the cloth that once protected Icefang. Gharrok placed several Septims on the top and pushed the package in front of the young Bosmer courier.

"Send this to the person whom sent you to me," Gharrok mumbled. The Elf nodded and, after finishing his meal, left the establishment.

"So, what is her name?" Ralof asked as his friend sat down, a wry grin growing on his face.

"Gerdur!" Gharrok retorted, knowing full well how protective Ralof was of his sister. Ralof would have been up and in the Skaal's face, if he weren't injured. Asrtid took this as a sign for the three of them to return to the encampment.

.

.

To be born and survive childhood in such a harsh land is a symbol of great strength and endurance. Each time the night of that date arrives, there is a celebration. The Nightblades were like a family, and as such, had prepared a feast for their fearless leader. Deer and yearling cows were slaughtered and roasted over a bonfire. Fresh bread vegetables were baked in the ashes. Gharrok had imported a couple of casks of Ralof's favourite mead, Black Briar. Music and dance was had. The unlucky few who were made to keep watch that night, and Gharrok, were the only ones who were afflicted with hangover the next morning.

"Ugh…" Astrid groaned, stumbling out of the treeline and slumped down next to Gharrok. "I feel like a draugr penetrated my sphincter."

"Do I even _want_ to know what that means?" Gharrok mumbled, his eyes closed. The Skaal knelt facing the ocean, meditating. "Did I not warn you not to try and compete with Ralof and Jarrad?" The Skaal yawned, opening his blue eyes.

"It is an expression," the lass slurred, the alcohol still flowing string in her system. "Ghar, hold my hair back…" Without warning, she splashed her face into the freezing swamp waters. Gharrok only just caught the red locks before they got drenched.

"Lightweight," Gharrok teased once she came up for breath.

"Fuck you, half-breed." Astrid grunted, only to gasp and turn to him. "I am sorry, I-"

"If you spoke like that to _anyone_ , you would receive a bloody lip. Speak to a Lord in such a way, and you would be thrown into a dungeon!"

"Lord Gharrok, I-" he didn't hear it, pushing her into the swamp and storming off. Gharrok had been bullied all his life for being a 'half-breed', the spawn of a Skaal and Nord. Most Nords considered him an outsider because of his Skaalish features, despite his mother being a Nord and that he grew up in the Reach.

Erika and Helga bid him good morning as he re-entered the camp.

"And a good morning to you, ladies. I trust your respite was peaceful?"

"It was, M'lord." Erika giggled. She had been a farmhand growing up. And now here she stood as an equal with a Lord. Working with Gharrok sent her over the moon with joy. "And yours?"

"Very well, thank you. What plans have you on this day?"

"Cleaning, cooking, washing," Helga answered. "Is there a raid today?"

"No," Gharrok answered. "But if you two are not busy, there is a supply cache hidden in a hollowed tree stump near the Apprentice Stone. Go and see if there is anything for us." With nothing else to do, Gharrok took up a brush and rubbed down his horse.

"Did anybody give you any trouble last night, Agr̃o?" Gharrok asked his steed, stroking down her muscular legs. Agr̃o whillied in reply, taking the chance to chew on his braided ponytail, like it were cud. "Do you think of me as a half-breed?" As magical of a place Skyrim was, horses could not talk. The mare nudged him with her wet nose, breathing a heavy breath. Perhaps the horse knew if his strife? Or maybe it just wanted an apple. Either way, cleaning the steed made the Skaal feel better.

.

The day was spent away from camp, where Jarrad and Gharrok scouted the land for any Imperial or Thalmor encampments. When they returned, the Skaal was ushered into Ralof's tent.

"News from Ulfric?" Gharrok asked.

"Read," Ralof grunted, pushing the paper underneath Gharrok's nose. As Gharrok read, his jaw progressively hung closer and closer to the ground.

"Such a task… that is impossible, even for us!"

"My thoughts exactly. We would need an army to accomplish that."

"The letter also mentions a gift?"

"Jarl Ulfric was so kind as to remember my birthnight," Ralof explained, pointing to the bottle of spiced wine sitting by the bedside table. "Truly a wonderful man!"

"I did not get a gift on my birthnight…" Gharrok grumbled, exiting the tent. Waiting for them around the campfire was the other thirtyeight members of the Nightblades, awaiting their leaders patiently.

"Shield-Brothers," Ralof started. "Shield-Sisters! I would firstly like to thank you all for a wonderful celebration last night!" The Nightblades laughed and cheered, toasting to their Snow-Hammer. "But, with each passing day, this war escalates!"

"As we continue our work, the Empire grows more and more desperate. They know to fear the mighty Nightblades!" More cheers and toasting. Gharrok held up his hand for silence. "I will not lie to you, our new task is what many would consider an impossible task. But I believe that this group of fine and capable Nords can accomplish anything!" This time there was no cheers, only looks of confusion and murmuring. "When you look across the bay, what do you see? You see Solitude. You see the docks. You see the ships. What else is there, sitting dormant and lurking?"

"What lies across the bay will give us enough money to fund the Rebellion for years! The Empire have stoled our gold mine and kept it for themselves! That mine, is the East Empire Trading Company!"


	12. Chapter 12: Fort Bluewall

The sword lunged at Gharrok's head, the Nord only just swerved away. Gharrok drove his shield into the attacker, knocking them down and driving his sword through their chest to end them. A woman swung her greatsword wildly, aiming to cleave the Skaal in half. Gharrok rolled aside, gripping his sword backwards and stabbing her in the soleus muscles. The woman cried in pain as he then grounded her with a blow to the back of the knee. As Gharrok rose he smashed the blade into her breast. Two axemen charged on both sides, hoping to bring the Skaal down. One arrived before the other, and Gharrok parried his stroke, bringing his weapon to the ground. While his focus was trying to release his weapon from the lock, Gharrok smashed him in the rear of the head with the heavy wooden shield. Before the poor lad had even hit the ground he had a slash across the back. The other axeman swung as Gharrok turned, his shield catching the weapon and leaving his body exposed. Gharrok drove his blade across the man's chest, head-butting his face and breaking his nose. Another soldier, armed with a spear, lunged at Gharrok. The Skaal's shield blocked the pointed end, and his sword sliced through the wooden shaft. From there Gharrok rolled towards the man and smashed him in the groin with the pommel of the blade. A behemoth of a man charged at him, using his weight as a weapon. Gharrok stabbed the end of his shield into the man's jaw, stunning him. The tank of a human charged again, delirious from the punch to the face. Gharrok braced and out his shield on an angle, throwing him over and into the air. As the man soared Gharrok sliced him from chest to groin. Once again a pair charged from either side. One he ran towards, lunging his sword into the man's throat. When the other arrived Gharrok sliced as he turned, the man's haste to fight ending him an he ran straight into the cut. The Skaal was a whirl of cuts, parries, and shield bashes, all who came near falling. A man who armed himself with a bearded axe swung at Gharrok's exposed back, but missed. The Skaal retaliated by a spinning shield smash, which sent him flying. Gharrok approached the man, panting lightly and putting the pit of his blade to the man's throat

"You are dead," Gharrok growled. "As for the rest of you!" The Skaal looked at the field of men and women, lying on the ground groaning and cradling injuries. "Divines, what am I to do with you? All thirty of you were defeated by _one_ man!" Gharrok had wielded a waster sword similar to a sword found on an Imperial soldier, demonstrating how deadly such a simple and short weapon could be.

"Jarrad, you missed me completely!" Gharrok turned to him. "My back was turned! You could have, and _should_ have, ended me there!"

"Not all of us are trained soldiers," The archer mumbled, grimacing as he clambered up. That was true. None of them had been formerly trained in combat, relying on each other to either swamp an enemy with numbers or stab them in the back.

"You all are soldiers," Gharrok corrected. "You are soldiers of the Stormcloak army. And shit soldiers at that!" The Skaal didn't even bother to help his comrades up, letting them struggle themselves. Ever since Astrid had called him a half-breed, his mood had been soured. During training he did not hold back strikes, fighting with ruthless intent. "Erika, you flinched. If you flinch in battle, you die."

"Sorry," the farm girl apologised, helping Helga up. "But would an Imperial soldier really roll and spin around like that?"

"Who said we were facing Imperials? What if I was a Justiciar, or Forsworn, or a bandit? Always, _always_ , be ready for anything." Astrid, who was among the wounded, hobbled over to him.

"Why must you take your rage out on them?" she asked quietly, so the others would not hear. "Blame me for what happened, not the Nightblades!"

"This has nothing to do with that," Gharrok grunted. "They face the danger of death everyday, yet they would not have a hope of avoiding it."

"My lord, most of these men and women had not picked up a sword before joining the Stormcloaks! They need training!"

"What do you think I was doing?" Gharrok grumbled, picking up his waster. "You all need to be prepared for a proper battle. If the Nightblades suddenly get called to fight on the front lines, they would perish." The Skaal headed back towards the camp, hacking at the heads of grass as he trekked through the mud. The camp had been mostly disassembled, ready to move on again. Stormcloak camps often moved around to avoid detection, unless they had a defendable and important position, such as a fort. All of the horses had been packed with the supplies, ranging from cooking pots, weapons, grindstones, and preserved food.

"How goes it?" Gharrok asked Ralof as he ran his fingers through Agr̃o's mane.

"Preparations are complete," Ralof answered. "How was the training?" Gharrok snorted, hoisting his pack onto Agr̃o's back.

"Thirty of them couldn't even take down one man. Thirty!" Gharrok turned to his friend, disbelief written all over his face. "How in Talos' name have any of them survived this long?" The question was rhetorical, both of them knew the only way that any of the Nightblades had lived this long was through trickery and deception. Catching the enemy with a lowered guard through ambushes. Those that were a challenge would be killed by a knife or arrow in their back whilst they were busy engaging another.

"None of them are soldiers," Ralof shrugged, securing the disassembled tents onto his horse.

"Neither am I, yet I managed to cut them down without breaking a sweat!"

"Because you have been trained since you were a lad. Which of the Nightblades have had a warrior for a father? You. Who has learnt the arts of magic and weaponry since they were a child? You! Who grew up reading of battles and meeting great warriors? You." Ralof approached the Skaal, almost whispering the rest of his speech. "These men and women are almost pathetic, I know that as well as you. But they have spirit, courage, and determination. If they were properly trained, they would be ruthless!" By then the Nightblades had returned, securing the packs and cargo on their steeds and mounting them.

"I shall meditate on your words," Gharrok nodded, realising that he had been treating his friends too harshly, expecting them to be something that they were not. "Do you know where we are to go?"

"Aye," Ralof answered, mounting his horse. "Nightblades, we ride across the countryside. The roads are too risky in Imperial controlled holds. We make for Brinewater Grotto!"

* * *

The ride was long, and mostly uncomfortable. The horses were slowed by the heavy baggage that they bore. Although they tried to avoid detection by anyone, the Nightblades had no choice but to ride through Dragon Bridge and along the docks. It was either that or spend days trekking through the deepest and most treacherous parts of the Reach.

"Halt!" A guardsman shouted to the riders as they approached the docks of Solitude. "What business have you here?"

"We are immigrants," Ralof lied. "There are places up in the north that are bountiful, and we wish to escape from the civil hostilities." The guard at the post looked at one another, unimpressed. Most people knew that the north of Skyrim was harsher than the mainland. The ocean before them was called the Sea of Ghosts for good reason. Whole fleets had vanished, never to return. Be it pirates, icebergs, or something fouler and darker, someone who avoided the sea was not considered paranoid.

"Where are you heading?"

"There are forests and vales up on the coast that are bountiful, and warm." The guards clearly did not believe the story, the hands on their spears tightening.

"On whose orders?" The other guard asked.

"Mine," Gharrok's steed approached the two guards. "I am Lord Gharrok, House Broken-Blade."

"I am sorry, m'lord. But all who pass through here are required to-"  
"Do you know what they do in the Rift to peasants like you, who disobey a Lords word? We peel the skin from their hands. Then we take the muscles, then the sinew. Until all that is left is bone. Then, before we cast healing spells, we put shards of iron in between the bones! If they do not die from loss of blood or the procedure, they will die a slow, _painful_ death as the rust spreads through their body. Would you like that?" Though every word of that was a lie, the guards looked terrified. To disobey, or even look at a highborn the wrong was a punishable offence, depending on the Lord or Lady's mood. The look that the Skaal gave the guardsmen made him seem like a monster, ready to feast on their flesh. The guards stepped aside, letting them pass. Gharrok could've sworn that he smelt the shit in their pants as the Nightblades passed.

"That was not truthful, was it?" Jarrad whispered to him, the Nightblades seeming to look at their second in command with fear.

"Of course not!" Gharrok scoffed, looking at his companions. "What do you take me for? A Daedra cultist?"

* * *

The road soon vanished, and their path was now simply traversing the rockpools and beaches. This was no easy task, mind you. Bears and horkers claimed the beaches for themselves, and slaughterfish prowled the waters. Gharrok and Ralof took every precaution not to be detected by bandits and corsairs.

"Hold a moment," Ralof held up his fist, halting the convoy.

"What ails you?" Gharrok asked, watching his friend read over the letter for the umpteenth time. "Do you need-"

"I do not need any bloody help!" Ralof snapped, trotting ahead.

"Any help, my lord." Gharrok mumbled, just loud enough for his friend to hear.

"This does not make one lick of sense! Not even a mage could work this out."

"I must admit, it is odd that Jarl Ulfric would send us to a place, yet only provide us with cryptic clues."

"Caught between the castle of the ever-sleeping and palace of sadness." Ralof read, his brow furrowed in thought. "Anyone got any idea?"

"Castle Volkihar," Gharrok answered, much to the confusion of his comrades. "The castle of the ever-sleeping is Castle Volkihar. The stories say that was where a very powerful family of vampires lived!" More looks of confusion. "Did none of you ever read stories?" Some of the Nightblades couldn't even read.

"Right," Ralof continued. "Well let us just assume that the palace of sadness is the Blue Palace. Gharrok, where is the vampire den?"

"All I know is that if you see an island on the horizon shrouded in mist, that would surely be it!" They had passed no such thing, so they were still in the right area.

"I think we should make camp," Astrid piped up. "We need rest."

"Not until we find this place," Ralof answered, spurring his horse on. The convoy followed, weary from a morning of intense combat training and an afternoon of hard riding.

"What dies the next clue say?" Gharrok asked. Agr̃o shuffled along, air pushing through her lungs with great effort.

"West from the tower of light, and past the broken oars."

"Solitude Lighthouse," Erika exclaimed. "And the broken oars would be Broken Oar Grotto!" Erika had grown up a fisherwoman, hauling nets off the coast of Haarfingar as a young girl.

"Very astute," Jarrad complimented the young woman. "Let us continue on while we assess this riddle further!" The Nightblades did just that, riding the perimeter of a bay of grey sand and snow.

"Read on, friend." Gharrok nodded, spurring his tired steed on.

"See the sunken hull, one more to go!" Ralof read slowly. Ralof had not been able to read till his late teens, and was still slow. Even he could decipher this section of the riddle. In the freezing waters sat a shipwreck, beached upon on a rock that had torn through its wooden hull. "The rendezvous point must be around the point!" Eagar to arrive at the place, the Stormcloaks hastened heir pace.

"Not much further now, bud." Gharrok rubbed Agr̃o's sweaty neck, wishing his steed on. To cool the horse down he cast a frost spell, and put his now freezing hands near the beast. As they came round the point, Agr̃o bumped into Ralof's horse.

"You have got to be kidding me…" Ralof groaned. Halfway down the beach was a giant blue wall of ice, barring their way. The convoy rode ahead of him, drawn to the glacier.

"Shor's stone, what is it?" Jarrad asked, tapping the wall with the string nock on his bow.

"It is a glacier," Gharrok answered. "A slow moving river of ice. Some say they are the tears of Julianos. My people say that they are the All-Makers way of baring us from sacred places. The question now is how do we pass it?" The glacier stretched along the beach, fusing with the mountainside. The other way, the blue ice travelled far into the ocean, most likely deeper than they could see.

"Could we swim?" Helga suggested.

"Who knows how far the glacier goes?" Gharrok shook his head. "The horses are already tired, and the waters are teeming with slaughterfish. It would be suicide!"

"Perhaps we could climb it?" Ralof suggested.

"With almost forty horses? Impossible." And so they sat there, mulling over what to do. Gharrok, already in a sour mood, grew impatient.

"If none of you have a better idea, then so be it! I shall climb this damned block of ice!" Gharrok took the cords that held the packages to Agr̃o and used it to tie his daggers to the soles of his boots. Throwing his shield into the sand, he borrowed an axe from one of the Nightblades and wielded Icefang in the other.

"I do not think that will be necessary, dear friend." Ralof hummed, reading the letter again. "Look here, another passage!"

"Perhaps you could have said another passage existed sooner!" the Skaal grumbled, beginning to undress the impromptu climbing apparatus.

"At the walls of blue, lay a hidden treasure-"

"Solve the maze and inside you shall find me!" A hoarse, croaky voice interrupted, echoing off the mountainside. The members of the Nightblades looked at their surroundings in shock. Was this place haunted? A few were mumbling prayers to Mara, whilst others drew their weapons.

"State yourself, stranger!" Ralof barked, as Jarrad and the other archers had nocked their arrows in their bows, seeking the source of the voice.

"Stormblade Hjornskar, House Head-Smasher!" The voice owner answered, seeming to apparate out of thin air. The man, several decades older then Gharrok and Ralof, wore the same armour that Galmar Stone-Fist donned. The armour of a Stormcloak commander. At the sight of a fellow Stormcloak, and one of such high rank, the Nightblades let out a consecutive sigh of relief, sheathing their weapons.

"The Nightblades, I assume. You arrived earlier then expected, I like that. Where is Lord Gharrok?"

"Right here," The Skaal answered, shaking the man's open hand. "Long has it been since House Head-Smasher and House Broken-Blade shared a drink and talked! How fares your family?"

"Well, I thank you," Hjornskar answered, as if they were old friends. "However since Jarl Ulfric called me to join his council, things have gone southwards. The forests of Falkreath, where the peasants who work for my family find their fortune, are now riddled with bandits and all other kinds of ilk. My sons are too busy counting their Septims and fucking whores to do anything about it."

"Is that necessarily a bad life?" Gharrok joked.

"Not if you want things to run smoothly!" Hjornskar retorted. "They could learn a lesson from you! You keep these Unblooded in good shape! Very regimental."

"I must admit that I am not the leading commander," Gharrok sheepishly admitted. "That man there is." Hjornskar looked at the man in question, snorting at the thought.

"A lowborn peasant taking command over a lord of a House as reputable as yours? Preposterous! Soon you will tell me that fish can fly, and that Talos worship is legal!"

"A great lord eats, shits, and dies just like any other person!" Ralof growled, approaching the Stormblade on his horse. "That 'lowborn peasant' also has a name. Ralof, remember it."

"Ralof," Hjornskar glowered, ready to give the lad a bloody lip. "I shall remember your name, son."

"Onto business!" Gharrok stepped between the pair, not wanting a fight to break out. "I must enquire as to where we proceed from here. We were given cryptic directions to where we were to go, yet our path is block." Hjornskar let out a laugh, snatching the letter from Ralof's hands.

"What moron wrote this? Was it Galmar? The idiot must think himself a poet!"

"Have you any help for us or not?" Ralof asked, his tone venomous.

"Yes, I was about to get to that," Stormblade Hjornskar spat back. "This glacier that stands before you is Fort Bluewall, the best kept secret of the Stormcloaks. Come!" Gharrok and Ralof followed the man, still mounted. The glacier seemed like a flat, impenetrable surface, but it was not so! A crevice had been cut into the ice, and a palisade gate barred their way. The tunnel was only wide enough for one horse at a time, and the palisade was several metres tall with archers atop. What lay inside astonished the duo. Between the glacier they had past and another great ice wall was a space not more than fifty metres in breadth. Even in such a small place a military fortress had flourished.

"Jarl Ulfric has been working on this place ever since the Markarth Incident," Hjornskar explained. "He knew that having a base so close to the Imperial capitol would be vital, and had this built in secrecy." Where most Stormcloak encampments were not more than a few tents around a fireplace, this was quite the opposite. Possibly a hundred men and women lived in permanent longhouses. Most camps were lucky to have a grindstone, or a bench for repairing and crafting. Fort Bluewall was equipped with a full forge, tanning racks and even a small smelter!

"This must have cost a fortune…" Gharrok mumbled, in awe.

"The most expensive thing was actually the ships," Hjornskar pointed to the ocean. The two glaciers formed a natural secluded bay. Several rowboats and fishing dinghies were beached on the shore, and five great longboats bobbed in the waters. "Those damned Imperials commandeered most of the shipwrights in Skyrim in fear of Ulfric building a navy. Lost a lot of good men getting just a few ship builders."

"It may seem like an unfair trade at the moment, I understand." Gharrok shrugged. "But their sacrifice will not be in vain. Imagine when a Stormcloak armada takes control of the Solitude docks and rushes into the city!" the thought seemed to invigorate the old man, who nodded at the imaginary situation.

"I pray for such a day, my boy. That aside! Let us continue." From the beach they walked southwest. At the rim of a slope, the biome they stood in seemed to immediately change.

"How…?" Ralof mumbled. What was once cold, muddy beach was now a warm, lush forest.

"Another miracle of the All-Maker." Gharrok smiled, finally dismounting his stead.

"So you really _are_ a Skaal," the Stormblade said. "I am surprised that a Skaal could become as well known and wealthy away from your homeland. Anyway, another great thing about this Fort is this vale. There is fresh game, and plenty of timber. There is only a small spring, but there should be plenty of water."

"How far does it go?" Ralof asked.

"Less then a mile." answered Hjornskar. "Be aware that there is a system of caves that go into the mountain. We have not had time nor courage to explore the depths."

"It would be wise to bar it then, make sure nothing of evil nature crawls from such a foul denizen." The Nightblades had all entered and were given direction to a corral in the vale where they could stable their tired horses.

"Fort Bluewall has but four possible ways of entry." Hjornskar continued. "A gate on either side, the cave, and the bay. However there are submerged rocks that make approach to the bay almost impossible."

"So how do you do it?" Ralof asked sarcastically, still keen to show himself superior to the commander.

"With great difficulty. You must worry not about the ice melting. It is cold enough to prevent melting, but you must take caution where you place your fires! Also, the walls are tall enough so that all smoke from fires is not seen. My men have tested this."

"How thoughtful," Gharrok smiled as Astrid took the reins of Agr̃o and Ralof's horse. "Do bandits harass Fort Bluewall?"

"Not once! The local brigands are too daft to find the crevice in the wall. Much like the Nightblades!" Hjornskar let out a cackling laugh, though the other two didn't join in.

"Perhaps I shall aid the Nightblades…" Ralof mumbled, wondering off.

"If perhaps we run out of food, how plentiful is the region?" Gharrok asked. Though they had brought provisions along, they would not last forever. People needed to eat a lot in cold climates to keep up their energy.

"The ocean in these areas holds a bounty of fish and crustaceans. Along the beaches you will find plenty of molluscs and horkers. Although red meat is rare in the woods, birds nest here almost all year round!" Solitude was just more than an hours ride from Fort Bluewall, so supplies would never be in need. Hjornskar's army of men had packed their supplies onto the three of the five longboats, waiting for their leader before casting off. Gharrok and the Stormblade walked towards the beach, and the Skaal helped the old man into one of the rowboats.

"I have heard great things of the Nightblades. Do not disappoint me, laddie."

"I would not even dream of such a thing." Gharrok replied, making the man nod in thought.

"I still wonder why a peasant holds more power than you. Were I in your position, Lord Broken-Blade, I would seize power before the rabble takes even more then they have from you…"

* * *

 _'I would seize power before the rabble takes even more then they have from you.'_ The old man's voice still rung in Gharrok's head. Could such a thing truly happen? History was filled with such events, where the peasantry overthrew the oligarchy and the Lords of the realm. But the Nightblades were his friends, his family! Each had sworn an oath of loyalty to each other, no matter wealth, colour, or creed. The thing that resonated the deepest was the part about seizing power. Gharrok and Ralof shared power equally. Yet who got all the credit? Ralof. Who had the higher salary? Ralof. Yet who was it that planned every attack? Who was it that was responsible for training a group of citizens into hardened warriors? Who was the best warrior? Who was born for leadership, the one who held power since they came from the womb? Gharrok! Perhaps, a change of leadership _was_ needed…

"Alright," Ralof announced, bringing the Skaal from his thoughts. "Now we must plan this impossible heist. How in Oblivion are we to steal from the East Empire Trading Company's warehouse?" In Ralof's private cabin were Ralof, Astrid, Jarrad, and Gharrok, all standing around a table littered with maps and documents.

"Perhaps we could set of charges on the doors and rush the guards with numbers?" Astrid suggested.

"And have the entire Solitude garrison come down on us? I think not." Gharrok dismissed.

"This is not something that can simply be done with magic blazing and blades swinging," Jarrad hummed, polishing his bow as they spoke. "We need to be like a hunter stalking prey. Perhaps the Thieves Guild? They could unlock the doors and use do all the reconnaissance!"

"Absolutely not!" Ralof shook his head. "We will not work with a bunch of lowlife thieves. I would rather trust General Tullius with Stormcloak information than work with them. They would claim most of the loot for themselves, instead of giving it over to a worthwhile cause!"

"What of the Dark Brotherhood? Why, they-"

"Damnit boy! They are worse than the Guild! If we are to do this, we shall do it with honour!"

"Honour?" Gharrok snorted. "What honour do any of us have?"

"Explain yourself," Ralof growled. As would any Nord be hostile if their honour was in question, Ralof was no exemption, treating his friend like he were a foe.

"We act like we are honourable warriors, but are we the Companions? Nay! What honour is there in killing weary travellers? Where is the dignity in stealing from caravans and convoys? We are but brigands and pirates in uniform!" The archer and redheaded women were stunned by Gharrok's revelation. How true was what he said? Were they no better then bandits?

"You dare question the glory of Nightblades!?" Ralof roared. "I will not have my authority challenged! Were it not for me, these men and women would be dead!"

"You cannot be serious," Gharrok scoffed. "Not once have you led a training session! Every time you decide to plan a raid, it ends in failure, or the results were pyrrhic! When I led the raids in the last months, how many have we lost? Four? Five? Far less then when you take charge! All you do is take credit for _my_ work!" Ralof looked ready to throw punches at the Skaal, enraged at such behaviour from his second in command, the man that should be most loyal to him.

"I was put in command by Ulfric Stormcloak himself!" Ralof retorted, bearing his teeth like fangs. "He sees me as worthy, therefore I am!"

"Oh, my dear friend," Gharrok shook his head. "Your reports show otherwise. Were it not for me, the Nightblades would have perished months ago!"

"At least I am not a Skaalish half-breed!" Ralof spat back.

"At least I am not a bastard," Ralof's face ran pale. Not many knew of that fact, and for good reason. To be a bastard in Skyrim was to be no better then a slave. Even the poorest man had more worth, according to the law.

"Fine then, if you want to lead them so badly, be my guest!" the bastard flipped the table with one hand, sending paper and candles clattering in all directions. Shoving past Gharrok, Ralof took his horse from the pen and rode out the gate. Astrid went to stop him, but Jarrad held her back.

"Let him be, he needs a night of drinking and whores." The commotion caught the attention of the Nightblades, who wondered what was happening.

"Gather everyone in the longhouse," Gharrok instructed, running a hand through his hair. Jarrad followed the order, but Astrid hesitated.

"Why did you say such things about Ralof?" she asked, fastidiously placing a hand on his shoulder. To her surprise he did not shrug it away, almost glad to have the gentle touch. "He tries his best, and-"

"Trying is not good enough," Gharrok answered, staring at the gentle waves roll upon the shore. "This is war, Astrid, not a game. If you only try, you die. I can no longer stand idly by with someone so incompetent in charge. There is too much at stake." The Skaal ran a thumb across her cheek, like a parent would their child, before walking to the longhouse.

"And what makes you so much better then him?" She asked, still standing there. Gharrok paused, before looking at her.

"I am highborn." And with that, he disappeared into the lumber and skin house. Just as Jarrad had been asked, the remaining Nightblades were present.

"Where is Captain Ralof?" Somebody asked.

"Ser Ralof and I had a minor disagreement. I trust that he should return soon!"

"Now, what have you summoned us for?" Jarrad asked.

"I summoned you because I wished to apologise to you all." For some this brought confusion, others felt that it was justified. "The past few days I have not been treating you how I should be, like my shield-brothers and sisters!"

"The blame is upon me," Astrid announced, suddenly entering. "Were it not for me, Gharrok's mood would not have been darkened."

"Per'aps then 'e should not be so easily upset by a girl!" A voice jeered, causing all to laugh at him. Gharrok nodded, taking it in stride.

"Perhaps you are right. But do you know why the Nightblades do so well compared to the other raiding groups? We train. I work you hard, and the results show. But now we are not fighting weary and unprepared travellers of local garrisons. We are going to be fighting professional soldiers, whose very job is to put raiders heads on spikes!" The image of such a sight made the men and women shift uncomfortably, not wishing their head to be next. "That is why your training regime will be doubled! Not only will you be learning how to fight with your desired weapon, but much more! How to march in formation, how to hold a shield wall, a pike phalanx!" The news of more work made a few groan in despair. "The only way to defeat a professional army is with professional training, so get some rest and be up at dawn!"

* * *

Spending a night enclosed by two glaciers was not a pleasant experience. The unfortunate souls that were on guard duty huddled around tiny fires, covered in several layers of furs. The rest of the Nightblades slept in great piles, sharing their warmth. All was quiet and peaceful in Fort Bluewall, until…

"GET UP! GET UP! GET UP!" Gharrok shouted, bursting into the longhouse. "GET UP!" The Skaal marched up and down the house, banging a ladle against a cooking pot.

"Too early…" Jarrad grumbled, turning back over.

"You can sleep in Sovngarde!" Gharrok kicked off the blankets the ranger slept under, throwing open the thatches to let in the polar winds. "It is a beautiful day today! Let us start bright and early!" The Nightblades begrudgingly left the warmth of their sleeping huddles, dressed and went straight to a fire that Gharrok had built.

"Nope!" The Skaal threw a bucket of water on the flames. "No rest until after you run!"

"Run?" Erika asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"That is correct! You must start the day with warming up your bodies! All of you, start running around the bay!" several of them groaned, filing out of the gates. As they all left, Gharrok told Helga to stay behind to make breakfast. "You will start the run once they have returned. Gharrok mounted Agr̃o and rode after them. "If you slow down, you die!" The Skaal brandished a large stick, and struck one of the mages, who was faltering behind. "The last one to finish the run has to scrub all of the ships, top to bottom!" Such a threat made the Nords pick up their pace as they sloshed through the snow and sand. Gharrok rode with them, shouting words of encouragement and whacking anyone who slowed down.

"You said you were nice and warm before, what about now?"

"No!" Jarrad shot back, not one for exercise. Gharrok couldn't help but smile, it was not often he got to take it easy whilst the others worked hard. Gharrok made sure to be firm, but fair in his treatment. Help those who needed it, but crack the whip on those who needed it. The run was soon over, and the Nightblades almost pushed the gate over, desperate not to be last. When they entered, huge platters of bacon and fried eggs lay waiting.

"So who lost?" Astrid panted, watching Helga start her exercise.

"It was a draw," Gharrok shrugged, dismounting. "I could not determine an exact loser." The Nightblades seemed to relax further, thinking that his threats were idle. Tomorrow morning, they would not be. As they ate, Gharrok thought of what they should do next. Each of the mean and women here were by no means unfit, but many were not in their apex form. Though fitness was one thing, skill was another. Helga soon returned and feasted herself whilst Gharrok went through the supplies that the Nightblades carried. From the crates that carried training weapons, he dumped quivers full of arrows with wooden heads. He took an old shirt and began to tear it to shreds, giving each Nightblade a shred, minus the archers.

"Arm yourselves, rangers!" Gharrok ordered. "Aim to shoot these rabble! The rest of you, find a tree and climb! If you are shot, give your tag to whomever shot you! Should you make it to the top and not be hit, you keep your tag."

The Nightblades hadn't even made it to the forest before the first volley was loosed. A couple went down, but most arrows missed.

"Amateurs," Gharrok mumbled, picking up a bow for himself. "Aim for where the target _will_ be, not where they are!" As if to prove his point, the first shit he loosed struck Erika in the back. The Nords scaled the trees like a spider her web. Arrow after arrow pelted the trees. Many-a-Nord who was climbing had to drop down. Others were caught by the pain and feel. But for the most part, the Nightblades were successful in their escape.

"Enough!" Gharrok shouted, ending the exercise early. "Come down now, enough for today." An audible sigh of relief whooshed through Fort Bluewall, the men and women happy to be free from Gharrok's tyranny, at least for now.

"Archers, a blind man could shoot better! You will spend the entire day shooting targets until your fingers bleed. Jarrad you hit most of your targets so I shall exempt you from this. Everyone else, with me!"

* * *

"What we lack is intelligence," Gharrok started, as everyone gathered around. "We need to know every little thing about the Company: Their shipment lanes, what they are shipping, the security, contents of the Warehouse. For now we shall go undercover. Disguise ourselves as civilians and disperse ourselves in the city. I want groups working the docks to spy on the shipments. I want a group disguised as hunters, prowling the roads for the caravan routes. I want some of you in the boats, looking for what routes the ships take."

"Perhaps we should also send a group to the markets, to see what the people are importing and exporting?" Erika suggested.

"A good idea!" Gharrok nodded. "I am in assent. So, we shall also have some of you in the markets. The last group I will need to be very careful, as I want them working inside the Warehouse itself." The instruction spread looks of concern amongst his companions. "We need to know what kind of security is inside that place. Count guards, track the keys to locks, keep an eye on what goes in and where they keep things.

"And what will you be doing, Lord Gharrok?" someone asked.

"Whilst I may not be taking as bigger risk as the brave souls who work in the Warehouse, my job will still have risk. I shall don the clothes of a noble and join Jarl Elisif the Fair!" Some were shocked at this news, while others showed little surprise. It was almost certain that a Lord would join the court. As they went their own ways to prepare, Astrid took the Skaal aside.

"Gharrok, have you noticed Ralof is still absent?" she mumbled, not wanting to draw attention to them. "I worry for him."

"We shall ride ahead then and search for him," Gharrok replied, entering the longhouse. "Everyone who is not staying here, get out of your armour. This is deep Imperial territory, their capitol, even! Not only will the Legion be here, but the Thalmor will be patrolling en mass! Be civil to the Elves, and no Stormcloak gear!"

* * *

Once he and Astrid had changed, her, Gharrok and Jarrad rode ahead of the infiltrators. The path was now well known to them, and they were in Solitude in just short of the hour.

"You search the market," Astrid instructed. "I will look in the brothel."

"Who said you gave me instructions?" Gharrok raised his eyebrow, folding his arms. "A brothel is not a safe place for one to wonder, especially since you are unarmed. I think it would be wise to start our search there." Solitude was a large city, filled with alleyways and all sorts of shady places. Several shady looking Argonians and Khajiit passed by them in these dank places, either trying to steal the Nord's purses, or sell them illicit goods. Behind the Radiant Raiment lay a house built into the wall of the city.

"Wot you want?" grunted the bulky Orc standing outside.

"This is the Bertha's Sleephouse, is it not?" The Orc took one look at Astrid and snorted.

"We don' want no more 'ores, piss off!"

"She is not here to work, I assure you." Gharrok replied. "We are looking for someone."

"You can go in, but she stays out." Astrid glared at the man, stepping towards him.

"Just you say that to my face, Greenskin!" Astrid was almost as tall as the Orc, standing nose to nose with him. "I could take you any day!"

"Feisty bitch, are ya?" The Orc gurgled a laugh. "Fink I'll fuck you after I beat ya to a pulp! An angry Orsimer was a deadly foe, which was common knowledge. Astrid was brave, but hot-headed. A fistfight with an Orc would be as successful as sleeping upon a cloud. Jarrad tried his best to separate the pair, but he was simply shoved away by the Greenskin.

"Gob!" a voice barked from above them. "Get yer fat mits away from those people!" The owner of said voice was a burly woman who intimidated the Orc into submission. " 'ts alright, dearies. That Greenskin won' bother you no more. Come inside, please!" The Orc grumbled as he held the door open for the three Nords. The inside of the Sleephouse smelt of candles, but it only faintly covered the stink of sweat and ejaculate.

"Welcome to Bertha's Sleephouse!" The burly woman strode down the stairs. "Now, how can I help you fine Nords? What can ol' Bertha do for ya?"

"We are looking for someone," Jarrad answered. The ranger did not even bother to let his senses take in what was around him, most likely because this was not his first time in a brothel. The first thing that hit him, besides the drapes and fading paint on the wall, was the sounds of laughter, music, talking, and, a rather disgusting fact, the constant sounds of grunting and moaning.

"Well, plenty of people come through here. Who ya lookin' for? Maybe one of the girls?" Bertha crossed her arms, rather annoyed that the three Nords were not customers.

"A man, Nord." Astrid answered. "In his early twenties…" Gharrok felt something drift across his leg. The Skaal's turned to see a young Khajiit walking past. The cat had a gorgeous figure, swinging her hips lustfully. As she rounded a corner, she gave him a sultry look and beckoned him with a waggling finger. The Skaal felt his legs gliding across the carpet to the seductress, like a moth drawn to fire.

"This one is called Rhaja," the Khajiit purred. "What is your name, handsome?"

"My name is Gharrok," answered he.

"The name I have heard in my dreams!" the cat gasped. It was an obvious lie, nothing more then a trick to seduce a customer, but it was working. "Oh sir, I am _ever_ so lonely, will you not keep me company?"

"I certainly would like to," Gharrok smiled, looking again at her gorgeous figure. "But I am afraid that my time is short. I must depart soon."

"Well, in what time we have together, this one is sure to be able to help you." Her tail crept up his leg, snaking its way around his waist. Her hands were soft to the touch, her claws not out of their sockets.

"I do not think that-" The Khajiit pressed her lips to his. Gharrok gasped in light shock, but soon melted into the kiss. The Skaal had kissed many-a lass, but this was much different. The lips were furrier, almost ticklish. Her teeth were sharp and tongue rough. If Rhaja were not a whore, he would have continued kissing her for longer.

"Are you sure you cannot play now?" she purred.

"No, he cannot!" Astrid grumbled, grabbing him by the ponytail and pulling him away from the whore. "We must leave at once!" Rhaja couldn't help but giggle as the Nord was dragged away. As soon as they stepped out, Gharrok grasped her wrist, pressing the bones together.

"Should you _ever_ treat a Lord like that again, I shall have your hands!" Gharrok snarled, his face an inch from hers. Jarrad knew that it was not wise to intervene, though Gharrok was probably overreacting, yet he had every right to act how he was. For a lowborn to take hold of a Lord in such a way was, in some Holds, punishable by death.

"I…" Astrid winced, the Skaal almost breaking her wrist. "I am sorry."

"Can I have her now?" Gob asked, having witnessed the whole thing. The trio ignored him and went to the more travelled, safer parts of Solitude, the marketplace.

"Jarrad, what news have you?"

"The last place that Ralof was seen was staggering towards the Winking Skeever." For what short time that the ranger had been in Skyrim's capitol, he seemed to be enjoying it. Hailing from a village in Falkreath Hold, he was not used to tiled rooftops, salt air and cobbled streets. This city, nay the whole experience, was alien to him. Entering the metal door, the trio approached the bored looking Imperial behind the bar.

"Greetings," The Imperial smiled. "What can I get for you?"

"We are looking-" Gharrok started.

"Ralof!" Astrid gasped, dashing to the captain. Ralof was splayed over a table, snoring in a pool of spilt ale, saliva and vomit.

"Oh for the love of Talos," Jarrad grumbled, pulling his friend out of the toxic puddle. An amulet of Talos hung around his neck exposed for all to see, clinking against the chainmail of his Stormcloak armour. "What have you done?"

"You with him, eh?" the barkeep grunted, leaving his post from the bar. "Go upstairs and see what he did to my inn!"

* * *

"Gods…" Astrid gagged, covering her face and nose. "What in Oblivion did you do!?" The table and chairs in the corner were nothing but a pile of splinters. The wardrobe and shelves had been thrown over, their contents splayed all over the room. The sea air drifted in from the shattered window, and the Nord's warhammer finding its home in the wall. Vomit stained the floor and walls were smeared with faeces. The excrement on the wall wrote crude and horrible messages. _Fuck the Empire_ , one read. _Half-breed Skaal._ Another read. _Death to the Broken-Blades_. A fire of rage sparked within the Skaal. How dare his so-called friend do this! Not only was he insulting his family, his people, but jeopardizing the mission!  
"Tried to get the fuck to pay for the damages, but he declared that his service to Ulfric Stormcloak was more than enough payment!"

"He said _what!?_ " Gharrok whipped around to the innkeeper, dropping Ralof in the process. "Jarrad, run across the street and buy some new clothes." As the ranger left, Gharrok counted the Septims in his heavy coin purse. "There is a total of two hundred and fifty Septims in here. I trust that this will buy your silence?" The man looked impressed, taking the heavy bag.

"Damn rebels," the Imperial spat, booting the drunken Ralof with his foot. "Skyrim was better off without you. That will keep me quiet, so long as someone pays for the damages that oaf caused!"

"Whatever must be done," Astrid agreed, the innkeeper leaving the three of them, one of which just vomited. Again. As Ralof clamoured to his feet, the Skaal brought his fist into the back of his head. Astrid gasped, but kept her distance, afraid on intervening on the angry Lord.

"Ow!" Ralof gurgled as he hit the floor again. "What' ya do tha for?"

"You know damn well what I did that for!" Gharrok snarled. "You humiliate yourself, jeopardise the mission, and dishonour the Stormcloaks! Now guess who has to clean up your mess, as always?"

"Fucking Skaal…" Ralof burped. The Skaal was tempted to kill Ralof then and there. But the repercussions would be severe, even given the circumstances. Instead he kicked him again and again, venting his anger.  
"Gharrok, enough!" Astrid finally worked up the courage to come between them. "He is your friend!"

"He could have ruined the entire mission!" Gharrok retorted. "I doubt the town guard, or the Empire's torturer would show such mercy!"

"Then punish him another way," Jarrad said, stepping into the room and closing the door. "You are a smart man, m'lord, but anger has clouded your vision. Make your report to Ulfric and spare no detail."

"For a woodsman, there are times when you have the mind of a scholar!" Gharrok smiled, calming himself. They undressed Ralof and put him in cleaner clothes. The four Nords descended the staircase, the innkeeper hailing them.

"All in all, this should be the entire list." The Imperial pushed several pages of parchment underneath Gharrok's nose, having learnt that he was not only highborn, but the one who held the money. Gharrok read the list, his eyes widening and jaw dropping as he reached the end.

"You cannot be serious. Eight _thousand_ Septims!?" Astrid gasped behind him, her and Jarrad carrying Ralof between them.

"You can but a house for less than that!" Jarrad gawked.

"I want my money." The Imperial grumbled, slamming his fist on the table, causing the few customers there were to look up at the commotion. "Would you rather the town guard know of this?"

"I have not such funds on my person," Gharrok admitted. "But I can promise that you will have your compensation, with interest!"

"And how, pray tell, will you do that?"

"Fetch me parchment, ink and quill, and sealing wax." The innkeeper returned shortly with the supplies ordered by the Lord, adding the cost of paper and wax to the overall bill.

"I want gold, not credit or items." The Imperial grunted, watching the Skaal write, sign, and fold the paper.

"And you shall have that," Gharrok replied, using his pyromancy to heat the candle's end and melt it into a puddle on the folded paper. Gharrok pushed one of his rings into the goo, leaving behind an impression of the Skaalish word for the All-Maker, a never-ending knot that formed a circle, triangle, and square all at once. Piercing the circle at opposite sides were Wraithbane and Icefang, the weapons that had helped form the great House. "Deliver this to Lord Roland, of House Broken-Blade in Ivarstead. My signature and ring will verify that you are owed a total sum of eight thousand and five hundred Septims." The innkeeper took the parchment with a nod, slipping it under the bar.

"Now get the fuck outta my inn. If I see you here again, I will kill you myself!"

The four friends left the establishment, welcoming the warm midday sun.

"Are you going to walk, or must I put Icefang up your arse!?" Gharrok glared at the bedraggled man. "I swear by the Nine and the All Maker, you shall regret what you have done!"

* * *

Regret it Ralof did. As soon as they had exited the inn, Gharrok started to beat the man with the pommel of Icefang. It took the strength of Astrid, Jarrad, and the town guard to wrestle the Skaal away. After the scuffle was broken up Astrid and Jarrad had been instructed to take their captain home, whilst Gharrok used the time in the city to walk the streets. Only once before had he been in the capitol, when he was not twelve years old. Gharrok remembered those days as a youth fondly. How the world had changed since then. Wars had come and gone, friends and family had lived and died, kings, ruled and usurped. Being unburdened by his armour, the only weight being the ever-reliable Icefang at his side, it was as if the war was but a fantasy in a dark dream. In Solitude, the war was non-existent. His face was unknown, but his clothes were well made, people would assume that he was just a traveling merchant, or a Lord from a Lower House, as it should be. Occasionally Gharrok would see a familiar face, one of the Nightblades in disguise. They were walking the streets, gathering information. Such flashes reminded the Skaal that he was not to enjoy himself. This was Imperial territory, home to the treacherous Empire.

"How I miss the warmth of the Summerset Isles," a voice with a snobbish tone sighed behind him. The Skaal spun around in shock. Standing not a few paces away strolled two Thalmor Justiciars. Instinctively, his hand went to Icefang, ready to fight.

"Citizen," one nodded, walking around the confused Skaal.

"I sincerely concur!" the second Justiciar agreed. "How my heart aches to see my kin once more. I dread to think of how much longer I must remain in Skyrim as part of my tour."

 _'They see me as nothing more than a civilian,'_ Gharrok thought, releasing his weapon. The Skaal decided that he would trail them and see what things they spoke of as they waked the streets.

"I noticed that the roster had two new names added recently. Did you as well?"

"The girl from House Dawnstone and the Bosmeri prince, aye. I cannot ponder what the poor girl did to end up in Solitude." Upon hearing of Aüriel and Eladän, the Skaal's attention doubled. It was hard to admit but his thoughts often wondered to them. More out of curiosity than genuine concern, why would he care for those that were his enemy?

"From what I have heard, the girl, Aüriel, interfered and disobeyed orders from a superior!"

"The nerve of her!" the other Justiciar gasped, looking at his companion. "Whom was it that she insulted so?"

"Justiciar Ananco, no less." Though Gharrok lacked the pointed ears of the Elves, his ears were pricked up nonetheless. Ananco, the man who had tortured and butchered Gharrok's comrades in the Reach. Having finally a name to match that cruel looking face, the Skaal would remember it. Justice would be dealt. If Gharrok ever saw his face again, he swore to the All-Maker and Talos that the Altmer's heart would be split in two by Icefang. "From what the rumours say, the lass was trying to stop him from letting his soldiers rape and torture prisoners."

"If such things are true, Ananco would be sent to the Summerset Isles in chains and tried before the great Arcane Arch-Magister of the Crystal Tower!"

"For his sake and his alone, I pray that the rumours a false. What of Prince Eladän? What reason has he to be patrolling the streets?"

"That Wood Elf is a disgrace to Bosmeri monarchy," the first Justiciar spat, literally letting lose a stream of saliva onto the sidewalk. "His behaviour is foul and his mannerism barbaric!"

"There is also the rumours of the company he keeps after hours,"

"Let him love who he wants. Prince Eladän may be a prince, but he is fourth in line. There is no chance of him taking the throne! I hear his father sent him to Skyrim because the king had had enough of his disgraceful child!"

"If he is as bad as that then I pray how we shall fare! Tell me, what did the prince do?" Gharrok turned the other way, this information leading nowhere. The Skaal remembered that his soul purpose was to find a place in Elisif's court, not spy on Justiciars. If the Gharrok happened to reunite with the Altmer woman and Bosmer prince, things would certainly be interesting. On one hand, they might help him, give him information, or help his mission. On the other hand, they could just so easily put a knife in his back. The Bosmer he still did not trust. Yet the girl, something about her entranced him. Her face. Her voice. Her figure. All these things and many more he enjoyed on a lever deeper than just mere lust.

"Watch it!" A town guard grunted, having accidentally bumped into him.

"A thousand pardons." Gharrok apologised, his thoughts halting. Why was he distracted so? Did she occupy his thoughts that much? It was a couple of hours before dusk, and so the Skaal decided it was time to return to Fort Bluewall. There was much to be done: supplies to count, reports to write, raids to plan. And, unfortunately, deal with Ralof.

* * *

"Mara help me!" Gharrok exclaimed, pacing in front of his captain who was bent over, sitting cross-legged by the shore. "You lack the brains of a troll at times! Wearing not only your Stormcloak armour, but _also_ an amulet to Talos!? This is not Windhelm, this is Solitude! The Empire's capitol!"

"I know…" Ralof's body was pale and sweating, symptoms of a serious hangover.

"Do you? Because clearly you do not! It is a damn miracle the Thalmor did not haul you away! What then of our mission?"

"Gharrok, I have a headache," Ralof's voice echoed from a bucket partially filled with vomit.

"Fuck your headache! Because of you, I am almost bankrupt!" The Skaal booted the pail into the sea, sending Ralof falling face first into the sand. "The damages to the inn not only ruined our mission, but cost over eight _thousand_ Septims! My fortune is not more than ten! Astrid tells me that you also sold your horse. For fifty pieces. _FIFTY!?_ A mediocre horse will only sell for a thousand! Snorri looked at the coins. They were counterfeit. The Nightblades had all been informed of Ralof's actions, and the potential damage that could have been caused. They stayed away from the angered Skaal, but subtly watched, curious as to what would happen.

"I am sorry!" Ralof bowed his head. "Look, I had a few too many tankards, and then this Khajiit let me try his Sleeping Tree Sap and-" That was the straw that broke the camel's, or as the Nords would say, the mammoth's back. The Skaal stormed away, shouting curses on Ralof's clan and all who followed in their stupidity.

"Oi!" Ralof barked, lurching towards him. "Do not curse my family like that, half-breed!" I will have you know-" Gharrok reeled around, his fist smashing into the drunk's jaw. Ralof let out a cry of pain as he ate another mouthful of muddy sand.

"In the past I have paid for your sins because you outranked me, and I saw you as a friend. Now I see you as nothing more than a fool and a drunk! You had better pay me back, Ralof Snow. I swear by the Nine and the All-Maker that if you do not I shall end you!"

* * *

Ralof spent the afternoon sulking by his lonesome, like a spoiled brat. Gharrok used the time usefully, sparring with the Nightblades. He fought fairly now, one on one bouts, teaching them all the things a warrior should know. As the men and women returned from spying in and around Solitude, the Nightblades feasted. The hunters had brought with them fresh venison and a boar, whose flesh tasted richer after a lifetime eating truffles. Though both Jarrad and Astrid invited the shamed leader to join them, Ralof refused, preferring the company of the horses. Night fell on Fort Bluewall, an already cold day made freezing, thanks to the rumbling glaciers. In his private room in the longhouse, the Skaal sat down to write his report to Ulfric Stormcloak and Galmar Stone-Fist. Such was the way of the first-mate. Doing all the work whilst the leader took the glory.

.

 _At midday on the 12_ _th_ _of Evening Star, the Nightblades arrived at Fort Bluewall and have successfully habituated and begun operations. The fortifications are nigh impenetrable, this place will serve us and the Rebellion well._

.

As Gharrok refreshed the ink on his quill, he scratched his stubble, questioning how to address the problem of Ralof. It was his duty to not mention it, as he had for many of his misdeeds, but this was much worse than all of his debauchery.

.

 _Since our arrival, the behaviour of Snow-Hammer Ralof Snow has been deplorable. On our first night within the Fort he went missing. The search party that I led found him the next morning is Solitude. Ralof was under the influence of Sleeping Tree Sap, a dangerous and highly illegal drug. In this state he assaulted a prostitute, drank a whole keg of ale by himself, sold a horse worth one and a half thousand Septims for only fifty (These coins turned out to be counterfeit) and destroyed a room in an inn. During this time he wore his Stormcloak armour and displayed an amulet to Talos proudly, shouting about how his service to Ulfric was enough to pay for the damages. I thank the All-Maker that he was not thrown into gaol or taken by the Thalmor._

 _._

 _As his first-mate, it is my duty to right his wrongs. I have done this for the last two years I have been under Ralof's command. However I think that I should no longer have to pay for is idiocy. This last stunt alone has put me in a debt of 8500 Septims. I am aware that his sister recently inherited the lumber mill in Riverwood from their father. It is obvious that he comes from a family that can repay House Broken-Blade. Honour dictates that he must, or, as a Lord, I see that I will use whatever means necessary to reimburse my family._

 _._

 _This is not the first time that Ralof has acted out in this manner. In my experience, there is not a poorer leader in the Rebellion. A warrior he is, but he has no honour, no strategy! Every time he plans a raid it ends in tragedy. Ralof takes credit for all my work. I am the one who plans the raids. I am the one who trains the Nightblades. I am the one that makes sure that everything we take is delivered to you. And yet Ser Snow takes one hundred percent of the glory, never congratulating the brave soldiers who risk their lives or honour those who have fallen. I demand not only is my family compensated, but that Ralof be punished in some way._

 _._

 _I believe that to successfully loot from the East Empire Trading Company we will need to intensify the training regime of our recruits. Reflecting on why the Stormcloaks suffer such great casualties against the Empire is because we have no formalised training. If we were trained in the same methods of the Imperial Legion, I can guarantee that not only would casualties on our side reduce, but the number of our victories would decisively increase. On the other page I have an order for square shields, pikes, short swords, and spears._

 _._

 _There is nothing else to report, we will continue to gather intelligence and raid the Company's shipments once we know their plans._

 _._

 _Lord Gharrok of House Broken-Blade. Bone-Breaker of the_ Nightblades

* * *

Gharrok finally sealed the report with a waxen seal and slumped back into the chair. Taking the pages to one of the many ravens in their cages, he rolled the package into a container on the corvid's back and released it. The birds were trained to fly to Windhelm from anywhere and return to whoever sent them. Though he had the option to sleep by himself in a bed, the night was cold. The Nightblades slept in great huddles, keeping each other warm. Erika on one side, and Jarrad on the other, the Skaal soon drifted to sleep.

* * *

The next few days were some of the best for Gharrok in weeks. At dawn they trained, running, stretching, exercising. Some days he went hunting along the coast. Other days he went fishing. Ralof's face was blackened where the Skaal's ringed hand made the crunching impact. The did not speak a word to each other after that day, and Ralof refused to take part in the Skaal's training. The Nightblades seemed to prefer Gharrok being in charge. Not only was Gharrok more skilled than Ralof in almost every way, but his right by birth motivated him to do everything meticulously. Three days since Gharrok sent the raven did one return, the message bearing the personal seal of Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak.

* * *

 _Lord Gharrok,_

 _._

 _Your report has been received and archived, Your orders are to continue raiding and stealing cargo from the East Empire Trading Company._

 _._

 _The actions of Ralof Snow have been recorded and he will see punishment once his mission is over. The actions he undertook were deplorable. No matter what rank or creed a person has, the actions he took should never happen. In the I shall personally travel to see Lord Roland Broken-Blade to apologise for you needing to pay for his sins, and will donate from my personal fortune 9000 Septims._

 _._

Gharrok's eyes widened. In all the years he knew of Ulfric, never had he been that charitable. What surprised him more was that he would talk with his father. It had been more than a decade since they last spoke, old grudges coming to surface. For such a prideful and stubborn man to apologise clearly showed how impressive the circumstances were.

.

 _Fort Bluewall is, in Galmar's words, 'the ultimate weapon against those Imperial bastards!'. Such a discreet location, yet with all the things that are needed to survive. The Empire shall never find her, so long as a smart leader oversees her._

 _._

 _Your plan to train the Nightblades in formal warfare is certainly interesting, and I wait to see the results. At the current time we cannot afford to give you the requested armaments. Not a month ago the Nightblades were given mithril weapons and armour, the first of all the Stormcloak army! Perhaps you can find the requested weaponry yourself in a raid. The Trading Company is being supplied directly from Cyrodiil, where they still use the formalised warfare of the Old Empire._

 _._

 _Whilst Ralof cannot be punished at the moment, I now see that it was wrong of me to place a mere lowborn in charge whilst a noble Lord had to obey him. From this moment forth that shall be rectified. Ralof Snow shall be stripped of rank and leadership, going back to not more than a Bone-Breaker. Gharrok of House Broken-Blade, you shall now be promoted to Snow-Hammer, and I give you command of the Nightblades._

 _._

 _Talos guide you,_

 _._

 _Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and High King of Skyrim_


	13. Chapter 13: Solitude

The next morning, after training, Gharrok showed Astrid and Jarrad the letter. It was not more than ten minutes before every Nightblade knew of the turnabout in leadership. They thought what had happened the day before was a coup, but now it was an official promotion. They respected Gharrok, and celebrated his rise to power. Ralof had surely heard the commotion outside, but he still refused to leave his cabin.

"What orders, Snow-Hammer?" Astrid asked, a wry grin on her face. She elbowed him lightly in the ribs, embellishing that it was friendly, and not hostile.

"The same plan as always," Gharrok answered, going to the chest where his belongings were stored. "I, however, have another calling." Lifting the oaken top and sifting through the clothes, tools, and books revealed a package wrapped in silk. What lay within was a beautiful set of clothes, woven by his mother. A burgundy shirt with gold lining, blue pants that sat tightly in a pair of tall seal leather boots. On top of the shirt he wore a coat adorned with swirling blue lines, much like traditional Skaalish clothes. The silk served as a belt, from which Gharrok hung his coin purse and Icefang. On his shoulders sat the pelt of a red fox, sewn into the coat. The Nightblades gawked to see the Lord in such regal clothing, watching as he slipped fancy rings and amulets over his person. Many murmured behind his back, thinking he was flaunting his wealth in front of them.

"You do not have to be wary of me," The Skaal smiled as he sat on an unturned boat. "I have a mission in Solitude, and I must play the role of a Lord." This seemed to calm them, and several of the Nightblades volunteered to be servants, squires, Erika even suggested she be his concubine!

"I am sure that will not be necessary," Astrid mumbled, braiding the Skaal's hair. "Have we not our own work to do? Erika, look after Ralof, would you?"

* * *

Each time that Gharrok rode from Fort Bluewall to Solitude, and back, the rides seemed to get shorter. Both man and horse knew the safest and fastest route, and Agr̃o's footing on the rock pools became sure and steady. It was not more then the hour before Agr̃o was stabled and the Skaal entered the city. It was not uncommon for people of nobility to walk the streets, but what drew their eye to Gharrok was his style of clothing. With the _Radiant Raiment_ boasting the latest and most fashionable clothes imported from Cyrodill, Gharrok's fashion stood out like a sore thumb. People eye him as he made his way towards the Blue Palace, The ancient palace towered taller than any building the Skaal had seen before. Even from the markets, his eyes were drawn to the blue tiles that decorated the rooftops and garden beds. What purpose they served other than decoration was unknown to him. Lord Gharrok walked through Castle Dour's courtyard, reflecting on the strange duo of Altmer maiden and Bosmer prince. It was unbeknownst to him exactly why, but he was keen to see the she-elf again. He was drawn to her like a wolf to the moon. Her soft voice, shimmering hair, beautiful face, and endearing figure all made his heart flutter and cheeks redden.

"Be careful!" A voice barked, bringing Gharrok back to the present. Gharrok's focus was on the woman, he did not notice he walked into someone, a Thalmor Justiciar! "Lollygagging is a crime citizen, remember that!"

"A thousand pardons," Gharrok bowed his head apologetically, though he felt no remorse. Like any sane person, he hated the Aldmeri Dominion, and the Thalmor. "I seem to be lost, perhaps you can aid me? I aim to reach the Thalmor's headquarters in Solitude."

"For what reason?" The Justiciar asked, raising an eyebrow and folding their arms. It was uncommon for someone to ask for the headquarters' location, and he grew suspicious.

"Not more than a day ago, one of your kind helped me." Gharrok lied. "I wish to pay them back." The Justiciar seemed to find this a worthy reason, or did not care. The Skaal followed them up the battlements to a tower covered in flags bearing the Aldmeri Eagle. The Skaal's blood boiled at the sight of it, Gharrok wanted to torch them. But for the sake of the mission, he kept his temper in check.

"What did you say the name of the Justiciar was?"

"Aüriel," Gharrok answered. "Tell her that Ragnar is here to see her." The Thalmor agent unlocked the door and entered, baring it behind him. It was not more than a couple of minutes that he was gone, yet his nerve slowed time greater than any Shout could. Here he was, a Stormcloak warrior, waiting to socialise with Thalmor!? What cruel Divine or Daedra had he upset to be in the place he was now? Although his mind screamed for him to make an excuse and leave, or simply run, something inside him drew him to the She-Elf. Was it curiosity? Lust? Anger? Perhaps an unhealthy concoction of all those and more.

"Ragnar?" A female Altmer popped her head out the door. Upon seeing the face of the Skaal, she gawked.

"We meet again," Gharrok smiled, flashing her a roguish, toothy grin.

* * *

"I must admit that I am in shock to see you," Aüriel admitted as they walked down to the streets. "Why…"

"Why what?" Gharrok asked.

"Why are you here?" The Altmer stopped, turning to him. "You cannot be! If they find out you are…" she stopped, checking to see if there was anyone eavesdropping. "…the enemy, they will kill you."

"Then I pray that you will keep my confidence." Gharrok ran a hand through his thick head of hair. Now that he was here, he had no idea what to say, what to do! "I am relieved to see that you are well." Aüriel mumbled, barely audible.

"My health is in good check, thank you for enquiring." Gharrok rested his hand on Icefang, her constant chill calming him. "You have no idea how thankful I am for you returning Icefang. Her worth to me is immeasurable."

"You are more than welcome," Aüriel smiled, hiding her face from him. "I could not keep it for myself." They stopped to enjoy the view of the bay from the hill, both parties not knowing what to say. "Gharrok, why are you here in Solitude? And what are you wearing?" Gharrok looked down at what he was wearing, was it really so strange?

"I am here on behalf of my father," Gharrok lied. "Lord Roland has asked me to join the court of Jarl Elisif." The She-Elf looked at him, pondering the answer he gave.

"What of your comrades? I read that Nords have a strong bond of fellowship?"

"That is true," Gharrok nodded, impressed she knew of Nordic ways. "But us Nords have a saying; _'Family, clan, honour.'_ One must always put their family above their friends and honour, and so I must serve my family before Jarl Ulfric." Aüriel did not comment, musing over her reply.

"Did you not say that you are Skaal, not Nord?"

"My mother is Nord, my father a Skaal." She seemed satisfied with this answer and they continued on. Their walk led them back to Castle Dour, where someone much younger than the several training marksmen was outshooting them.

"Amateurs!" The Wood Elf scoffed. "Honestly, I thought you were soldiers, not old women!"

"Why you little…" one glowered, cracking his knuckles. "Why I oughta kick your tiny arse back to Valenwood!" The Skaal had already stepped up, holding the angered Nord back.

"I would advise against it, friend." Gharrok grunted, the man trying to throw him off. "That elf is the son of the Bosmer king. If any harm were to come to him whilst he were on tour, I dread to think what would happen to you." The Elf gasped in shock, seeing who vouched for him.

"Just this once, Wood Elf," the Imperial soldier grunted, retrieving his weapon and returning to training.

"Gharrok?" The Wood Elf approached the Skaal. "What in Oblivion are you doing here?"

"My father has sent me on a mission of diplomacy," Gharrok lied, parroting the answer he gave Aüriel. "I am to spend some months in the capitol." The Bosmer sheathed his bow, looking up and down at the Skaal.

"Your clothes are… rather hideous, I must admit."

"Prince Eladän!" Aüriel gasped.

"They are a fusion between the clothes of Nordic nobility and traditional Skaalish. It is not the most fashionable," Gharrok shrugged. "My mother made this, and I wear it with pride!"

"Well, if that is what you call fashionable so be it," Eladän replied, sitting upon a bench. "How goes the High Queen?"

"The _Jarl_ ," Gharrok corrected. "She is… well. Life in the court is hard." The Skaal smiled at the thought of him _actually_ being part of the court. Though he was smart, and had a way with words, he loathed the politics. What could not be solved with a blade or a spell was of little interest to him.

"Look at them," Eladän nodded at the recruits training. "You are a bladesman, are you not Skaal? What can you say of their training?" The Skaal turned to look at the recruits of the Imperial Legion. The Skaal, having spent years training in the arts of war, saw several flaws in their fighting.

"For one, they are holding those swords too tightly," Gharrok started. "When wielding a blade, you must hold it like-"

"I know how to fight, Lord Gharrok." Eladän interrupted. "Please continue."

"They are too top-heavy, and are too rigid." The Bosmer nodded slowly, humming to himself.

"You know much about swordsmanship, for one who wields an axe." The Skaal explained to them how he had learnt both the traditional Skaalish, mainland Nordic, and modern Imperial forms of combat for many weapons. Sword, axe, bow and spear.

"I also happen to be adept at the Redguard quarterstaff!" Gharrok boasted.  
"There are no better archers than the Bosmer," the prince pointed to himself. "We are born with a bow in our hands. It is our art!" Gharrok spied the competitive twinkle in the Bosmer's eyes, one that he knew would end with him losing.

"Another time, prince."

"…want to learn…" the Altmer mumbled.

"Sorry?" Both of the men said at the same time.

"I… I want to learn…to…to swordfight." Gharrok did a double take, surprise written all over his face. A battlemage, wanting to learn to use a sword!?

"I could teach you," Gharrok smiled at her.

"Wha? N-no, I said nothing!" She gasped, shrinking back into her shell.

"Worry not, m'lady! You are in safe hands!"

* * *

The Skaal took her by the wrist and led her towards the training swordsmen. They were bored and too tired to continue, only taking swings when the drillmaster looked their way. They were using waster swords, blunted swords used specifically for training purposes. Something the Stormcloak forces lacked, proper training facilities and equipment.

"Might we borrow those?" Gharrok asked. The swordsmen grunted, leaving the wasters for them to amuse themselves. Gharrok picked them both up, swinging them around. To the unobservant eye it looked like that he was simply playing around. In truth he was testing each one for their weight and how straight they were. Most training swords were deliberately made to be heavy and cumbersome so that the wielder would grow strong.

"Which hand is your strongest?" Gharrok asked, passing her the lighter of the two. Aüriel indicated her left, holding the sword in that hand. Gharrok showed her a basic stance, pointing her sword at him. Gharrok took a gentle swing at her. The Altmer flinched as the swords crossed, dropping the blade. The relaxing soldiers laughed, throwing racial slurs at the High Elf.

"I am hopeless," Aüriel sighed, picking up her sword. Gharrok frowned, lowering his own sword.

"You are not hopeless. You simply have to learn. We shall start with the basic form." Gharrok sheathed his waster in his belt and approached Aüriel, standing close behind her.

"What are you-" Aüriel squeaked.

"The key to all martial arts is your pose," Gharrok instructed, his voice low. the Skaal could feel her body tense up as he held her. His heart raced faster than a sabre cat after a deer. "Stay low and balanced, keep your knees bent and your rump in." Aüriel shivered as he pushed his own body to adjust hers. Gharrok stepped away to examine it, before nodding. "Good."

"Did you have to have to hold me so lewdly?" Aüriel mumbled, scowling at him. Gharrok apologised, showing her the proper grip of the blade.

"Hold the hilt with your fingers spread so that pressure is dispersed evenly. Imagine you have a dove in your hands. Hold it too lose and it will fly away. Too tightly, and it will choke." Prince Eladän yawned, growing bored of watching them.

"I have better things to do than watch you two play swords. I shall be in the Headquarters." Gharrok's waster kissed the edge of hers, and they started slowly circling each other, occasionally switching stances. She tried a few simple cuts and parries, much to his amusement.

* * *

"That is enough," Gharrok wiped the sweat from his brow. It was late afternoon by the time they concluded. "You learn fast, I am impressed!" the impatient drillmaster snatched the swords from them and pointed them the way out of Castle Dour. The Skaal flicked him a Septim for the trouble. "In a few months, I can be certain you will be able to defeat a training dummy!"

"Very funny," Aüriel grumbled as the Skaal laughed.

"Joking aside, you show promise! I have trained many, and one afternoon with you has shown more promise than weeks of effort." His praise made her smile shyly, and she thanked him.

"You two done yet?" Eladän had appeared out of thin air, putting his arms around the Altmer's and the Nord's shoulders, despite Gharrok being much taller than him. "I am starved. Let us find something to eat!" Gharrok looked around as Eladän pushed them down to the streets. There were Nightblades disguised in Solitude, no doubt they might see him.

"I hardly doubt a Justiciar and a Bosmeri prince socialising with a Nordic nobleman is acceptable for you, is it?" Gharrok asked. The thought of being spotted by one of the Nightblades struck a fear in him that no monster or Daedra could. They would begin to be wander, even suspect him.

"The Thalmor work to integrate and socialise with the local inhabitants," the Bosmer answered. Aüriel mumbled something about wanting a drink, so the trio travelled to the markets. The last time Gharrok had been here was when he was a lad. In those days it was rare to see anyone that wasn't a Nord. Wherever the Skaal looked, people of all races mingled and lived harmoniously. Imperial, Bosmer, Altmer, Breton, Orc and Redguard. Dunmer, Argonian and Khajiit. Gharrok was astounded so many people of different cultures could be together and chaos not break loose. The guards' hands were never far from their swords, marketplaces were a usually dangerous place in cities. Pickpockets, thieves, racketeers and drunks were a common sight in such places. The Justiciar approached a stand that was flocked by women and young children. Behind the wooden bench was an old High Elf woman, surrounded by fruits and grasses that were alien to the Nord. Aüriel spoke in her native language to the woman. The old lady began to slice the fruits into a puree with large knives and scooped the content into a cup that materialised out of thin air. A strange reed was stabbed into the juice to finish the dessert.  
"Please," Aüriel held a cup towards him. "Try it." Gharrok was suspicious of foods that he had not tried before. For all he knew, Aüriel could be serving him a cup of poison. The one thing that killed all mistrust was her eyes. They looked at him, wide and pleading. The Skaal felt his heart skip a beat as they glistened in the sun. Gharrok nodded, taking the cup from her.

"Ah!" Gharrok gasped, almost dropping the beverage. "A cup of ice? How clever!"

"Eight Septims, young one." The old woman smiled. Before Aüriel even had a chance to reach for her coin purse, Gharrok had already put the coins on the bar. The old woman looked at the Skaal, and then Aüriel. "What a fine young man you have, lady Aüriel! Mara has certainly blessed you, your husband is so handsome!" Aüriel almost shattered her drink as she froze up.

"W-wha?" she gasped, flustered. Gharrok had never seen a High Elf with red skin, but her cheeks were turning that colour as she fretted. "This man is not my-" the old woman laughed, slapping her hand on the bar.

"Should you not find her a worthy suitor, I shall certainly be, m'lord!" Gharrok's eyes darted between the pair, Aüriel speechless, and the older one saying how they looked like a good match.

" _Jeg beklager, min kjære kronblad_ ," Gharrok purred, leaning close to the older woman. Nowadays few Nords spoke traditional Nedic, but his handsome face, bright eyes, and deep, genteel accent had turned women of all ages and race to mush.

" _Men i denne liv, vi kan ikke være. I det neste liv, vi vil være sammen till Arkay skiller oss_..." Words foreign to the listener's ears often made them emotional, this old woman was no different. She swooned at the words, despite knowing not a word of Nedic. Aüriel spied the Bosmer sitting by his lonesome, his teeth sinking into a raw steak.

"Did I just observe you flirting with an old woman?" Eladän asked as the others joined him. "You are either truly desperate for a lay, or your fetishes are of some concern." Aüriel gasped, turning to the Wood Elf. Gharrok glared daggers at the short man.

"In your homeland you may be a prince, but that does not mean that you can treat people here like your playthings." Gharrok growled. "You are in one of the harshest lands in Tamriel. Learn to respect it and its people." Eladän did a double take, abhorred by the Skaal's utter lack of disrespect.

"Ser Gharrok, you have not tried your dessert!" Aüriel pipped up, knowing that there was a potential for conflict to arise, and she wished that it would be avoided. "It is something that I enjoy verily!" the Wood Elf and Nord scowled at each other, a bitter air between them. Gharrok sucked through the reed, blinking in surprise as the overload of flavours splashed across his tongue.

"So sweet," Gharrok mumbled, looking at the dish in awe. "The subtle hints of sourness… Never before have I tasted such things!"

"That is because the fruits are not native to Skyrim," Aüriel explained. The Skaal pouted, raising an eyebrow. "The fruit and sugar cane is from the Summerset Isles."

"Such an expense for a drink?" Surely local ingredients would be a much better substitute!"

"There would be no point, it is not the same!" Aüriel huffed. She slammed down her drink with a deliberate force so that it could be heard. "You _must_ use traditional ingredients to make something that is traditional. Otherwise it is nothing better than a cheap fabrication, as if you did not know that!" The way that she looked au at him, a delicate little flower as angry as a Frost Troll. The Altmer's cheeks puffed up, her dimples showing. Such a sight pained Gharrok more than any arrow could. It was his very soul that was being stabbed.

"Y-you are right," Gharrok mumbled. "Forgive me." The trio sat there, watching the citizens go about their business. Somewhere among them were the Nightblade infiltrators, learning all they could and adding fuel to the fire of insurrection. Gharrok prayed to the All-Maker and the Divines that he would not be spotted. To be seen with the Thalmor was a one-way trip to the headsman's block.

"What do your kind usually have in the ways of sweeteners?" Eladän asked.

"Honey," Gharrok answered. "Berries. Apples and nuts. The same as most places. I-" The Skaal was cut of as he looked over at the Bosmer. The little man had his pointed teed ripping through raw flesh. Blood splattered over the Bosmer's face as great chunks of raw meat rolled down his gullet. The sight of eating raw meat made Gharrok queasy. To eat any meat raw was to roll the dice with Arkay, especially day old meat! The prince seemed not to mind and continued his feast.

.

.

Magnus had long since completed His journey through the sky when Gharrok Broken-Blade returned to Fort Bluewall. The Nightblades, his dear friends, showed great zeal at his return. Agr̃o was led to the corral, whilst Gharrok sat by a fire, filling a bowl with a broth made from fish and berries. Jarrad, Astrid, and those in charge of the other infiltration teams sat around the open flames.

"How has the infiltration efforts progressed?" Gharrok asked. The freezing sea winds only added to the cold that the blue walls of ice spewed. Even when sitting around the fires would the Nord's breath condensate.

"The Empire suspected nothing when our men volunteered to work the docks," one of the Nightblades answered. "They truly are fools!" chuckles echoed around the fire. The Nords of the Nightblades truly hated the Empire, each man and woman had their personal vendetta against them. For some it was simple as believing in Ulfric's patriotism. Others had lost kin in the Great War, bodies that were never returned to the ancestral crypts of their families. The Imperial soldiers, even though they portrayed that they were the paragons of civilization, are not. It wasn't uncommon for Empire soldiers to steal from farmers, coerce them to take all of their possessions, or be killed where you stand. The more barbaric soldiers, notoriously the Orcs, were known to abuse their victims in worse ways. Jarrad had sworn a blood oath that he would slay a Legate named Skulnar, who was responsible for the death of his family.

"What goods are being shipped out of the harbour?" Gharrok asked, slowly eating the food before him.

"Furs, silver, and other Nordic goods. Nothing of major importance."

"Find the harbourmaster's ledger and make a copy." Gharrok ordered. "If we are to successfully raid the Imperial trade routes, we need to know what is in store for us." The Nord responsible for the men at the docks put his fist to his heart and nodded curtly. Jarrad oiled his longbow as they sat around the flames, the wood reflecting the flickers of the light.

"We have been tracking all Imperial wagons and patrols going in and out of Solitude," Jarrad explained. "It will take time to find where it would be best to ambush them, as well as where the local bandits roam and raid."

"See to it that it is done," Gharrok instructed. "Get some rest, all of you. We move at first light." A chorus of "Yes, m'lord,"'s were said around the fire as the speakers moved away. The Skaal moved away from the fire and up a path into the mountains. It was significantly warmer in the grassy glade, though small. A small spring bubbled from the snowy caps. The many horses of the Nightblades huddled for warmth in their pen. Gharrok found his steed amongst them and ran a comb through her mane. Agr̃o leant her neck onto him.

" _Flink hest,"_ Gharrok mumbled. Agr̃o had been Gharrok's companion for many years. His first horse, Agr̃o is the daughter of his father's mighty steed. The silver bay horse took an immediate liking to Gharrok, who had cared for her as soon as she was weaned.

"She is truly beautiful," Astrid mumbled, approaching them. The redheaded woman stroked the horse's neck from the other side. "I must admit that I am jealous of you for riding her."

"What is wrong with Acorn?" Gharrok asked, nodding to the horse in question.

"She is a good horse, but her pedigree is nowhere as prestigious as Agr̃o." The pair was silent, an awkward subject baring the conversation. The events of days prior revolving their friend was not something that either of them wanted to discuss, but it was imperative.

"How is Ralof?" Gharrok eventually asked. Astrid shrugged with a sad expression on her face.

"He was eating today," explained she. "Yet not once has he emerged from his cabin." The sudden change in leadership had clearly shaken him to the core. The leadership of the Nightblades was all Ralof had. He was a bastard who grew up working in stables and taverns. Ralof never had a family, minus the woman who proclaimed that she was his sister. All he ever wanted was respect. As soon as the Rebellion began he dreamed of being the paragon of the Ulfric's army, the man to rally his armies and lead them to glory. To have the only thing that he lived for ripped from underneath him… Gharrok couldn't imagine what he was going through.

"I shall go and speak with him," Gharrok nodded. "I can not have a member of my team sulking like a child."

"I beg that you will be gentle on him," Astrid frowned. "He has been through enough."

"This was his own doing!" the Skaal retorted. "His actions cost him the leadership of the Nightblades." Astrid sighed, her hands dropping from the horse. Agr̃o looked at her, as if demanding more petting. "How have you been though? This last week has been far from easy on all of us." Astrid, as big a personality she had, she was small, and frail. She put her hands on his with a sad sigh, nuzzling her head into them.

"Things are not well," Astrid mumbled. "It gets _so_ cold, and I get so lonely…" Her hazel eyes look up into his blue orbs, begging like a dog for food. He knew what she wanted, how she felt. He had infatuated her from the day they first met. But Gharrok saw her as only a friend, a companion that he could trust. Even Gharrok, who was more comfortable in the cold than other Nords couldn't argue about the cold in Fort Bluewall. One had to be careful if the ocean winds were blowing at night. Some of the Nightblades had an awful experience of their piss freezing as soon as it left their body. "Can you hold me, Lord Gharrok?" The Skaal opened his arms up to his friend, pulling her close. Some strands of her pretty hair snaked out of her hood and down his torso. The young lass pushed her face into his warm chest, as if Astrid was trying to inhale his musk.

"I shall have you assigned to the teams scouting the wilderness, and have you go south, somewhere warmer?"

"…hank oo." Her voice vibrated through his chest. She stayed there for quite some time, until they moved back to a respectful arm's length away. "Lord Gharrok, can you keep me warm tonight?" It didn't take a scholar to know what she wanted. Astrid didn't want them to merely sleep next to each other in the pile, where everyone slept to share warmth. Astrid wanted them to sleep alone with him in a box-bed.

"Astrid," Gharrok turned away, running a hand through his hair. "You know that I cannot do that."

"But why?" Astrid pushed. "There are other Nightblades who are in relationships. Vlad and Krista are married!" What could he say? That he didn't love her? That he was being drawn to a woman who wasn't even a Nord?

"You know it would be improper for me to fraternize with my squadron." Gharrok put simply. "The chain of command must be respected." Astrid sighed, as if she were frustrated from the unrequited love.

"That is why the Stormcloaks fight, Gharrok! So we do not have to live by strict rules. So that our soldiers can be free to what they wish." She approached him, clasping his hand in hers. "Love, who we wish." Gharrok turned to Astrid, drowning in her pleading eyes. She looked at him like he was a god, the perfect creature. And in her eyes he was, one who had snared her heart from the moment she laid eyes on him.

"Then that is not a military that I want to be part of," Gharrok took his hand back, returning to the camp. Astrid watched him go, her hand reaching out for one that didn't grasp back.

* * *

The last Stormblade who was in charge of Fort Bluewall had his men build him a small cabin. Gharrok sat at the table, carefully planning an assault on a trading convoy. Each person had to be carefully positioned as to his or her strength. Archers would be dotted along the road behind cover, able to shoot the Imperials whilst the rest of the Nightblades charged in. Every mission had the chance to end in peril, something that Gharrok dreaded to think about. Many Stormcloak soldiers thought strategy was simply point at the enemy and charge, but there was so much more. The time when you charged, the strength of the shield wall, who shit the first volley of arrows, or the stroke of a single sword. All such minute things could change the tide of battle. The Skaal sighed, running his hands through his oily locks. The battle would be bloody, and there was no chance of escaping this without casualties.

"There is nothing more I can do," sighed he, taking the papers as he exited the cabin. The Nightblades looked at his expression keenly, trying to figure out how the coming battle would fare. Gharrok couldn't see into the future, but he was the most formally trained soldier of the Nightblades, and a skilled commander. His opinion on the eve of combat was paramount. The Skaal gave his subordinates a smile, hoping they didn't see the dread in his eyes. A lone hut sat by the water's edge, the longboats sitting moored around it.

"Captain Ralof," Gharrok started, opening the door. "It is time to leave your cabin."

"Leave me," Ralof mumbled, lying in the cot.

"No," Gharrok refused. "You are a soldier, not a milk-drinker. Get up!"

"Fuck off," Ralof snorted, turning away from the door. "Just leave me here." The Skaal sighed, pushing the papers into his face.

"Just read these. _Now._ " Ralof grumbled curses at Gharrok as he snatched them up. His eyes flicked over the sheets, his expression changing from frustration to confusion.

"Why are you showing me the strategy planned for the attack tomorrow?" Ralof asked, looking at Gharrok. "You are now in charge, I am irrelevant."

"That is untrue," Gharrok replied, trying his best to give Ralof a kind look. "The Nightblades has always had partnership in leadership. When you were the leader, we ran this equally." The light seemed to return to the man's eyes. A hopeful grin growing on his face. "I don't want glory or wealth, I have those already. All I want is a first mate worth his salt!" Ralof rose from his bed, joy written all over his face.

"Lord Gharrok, why? You are the one that Ulfric has been grooming for leadership!"

"Because friends are worth more to me than a pile of Septims." Ralof threw his arms around Gharrok, squeezing the air from his old friend's lungs. "Get something to eat, and join the rest of your shield-brothers and sisters in the longhouse!"

"Yes, m'lord!" Ralof beamed as he left his lean-to of anger, a skip in his step.


	14. Chapter 14: Tragedy at Sea

_The sound of the Hearthfire cicadas echoed outside. Yet inside it was dark. Nothing but the light of a few candles let the room. There was a gasp as nails dug into Gharrok's back. The two were in a tight bond, their lips never separating from another. Her hands were exploring down his muscular back, following the grooves of his spine. She let out a light gasp as his hands caressed her perky, yellow breasts. Their lips separated and they stared into each other's eyes._

" _This is my first time…" she admitted. Gharrok couldn't help but look a little shocked. This goddess of a woman before him, a virgin?_

" _If you do not want to, I understand." Gharrok started. Even as they stood, bodies touching, he couldn't help but look at her. Those eyes, the pointed ears, the tone of her skin, all of it he was drawn too, like a wolf to the full moon. The woman shook her head, reaching up to place a kiss on his forehead. His body was covered in goose bumps, hormones flowing through his veins. This woman, all he wanted was her._

" _This is what I want," the woman cooed. "I want you, Gharrok. Just be-" a moan overtook her as his lips met her breast. His lips kissed them lightly, gently suckling on the nipple. Her fingers trailed the intricate patterns of his torso. Every line, every scar, every inch of his Nordic muscles made her drip with euphoric lust._

" _Unf~" the woman gasped as his hands worked their way around to her rear. The Skaal wanted to tear her apart right there. But he was slow, gentle. Mara's Dance was one that was intimate, and took time. Gharrok swallowed in surprise as the strings on his pants began to loosen without her even touching them. Gharrok couldn't help but look at her up and down. That yellowed, perfect skin was everywhere, tempting him. Unlike other women he'd bedded, her body was hairless. The loincloth around his waist did next to nothing to hide his hard extremity. They embraced again, kissing with passion. Gharrok's hand slithered into her lingerie to feel the moist flesh underneath, already dripping in anticipation._

" _Take me," She moaned as they fell onto the bed. "I am all yours…"_

* * *

Of all the dreams to have shattered, it had to be that one. The rumbling of dozens of running feet brought the Skaal back to reality.

"Damnit, I forgot." Gharrok groaned, sitting up. "The raid."

"Must we go?" a voice mumbled by his side, covering themselves with furs. "So comfortable…"

"I am afraid so, Astrid." Gharrok answered. The Septim dropped in his head. The pair had spent the entire night together spooning. Was that the reason for that dream? Astrid shuffled closer to him, a devilish look upon her face.

"I can tell that you had some good dreams." She cooed in a sultry voice. "I wonder if I was the icon in your dreams?" Her hands crawled under the furs he slept under and towards his already turgid phallus. There they began to work, bringing him ever closer to discharge.

"Astrid, you cannot-"

"Gharrok, shake a leg!" Jarrad grumbled as he ran past, oiling his bow as he did. The motivation to go only hurried Astrid's work.

"S-stop, now." Gharrok ordered, pushing her away. She seemed shocked that he shot up and stomped away, leaving her alone on the floor. The Skaal rushed away to his private quarters before anyone could have realised what was going on. Why would she do that? To disgrace both of them so by preforming acts where everyone could see them? She was a Stormcloak warrior, not a whore! What troubled him the most was that he actually _enjoyed_ it. But wouldn't any male?

"Gods, what am I to do?" Gharrok grumbled to himself as he dressed for battle. A plain shirt and pants were the first thing over his body. A chainmail shirt and padded leather vest was next. Each strap that tightened on his body was like a pinch, but better to be well protected than let an arrow punch through his armour. Thick fur boots and gauntlets were the last additions to his attire. The Skyforge steel sword that Hermir Strong-Heart had given him was strapped across his back. Several knives were shoved in his belt, and his shield was slung over his back. Last, and certainly not least, was his axe, Icefang. The blade had been sharpened and cleaned last night. The dawn sun shone off her head. Gharrok could feel the chill of the enchantment placed upon her as he slid the weapon into his belt.

"All-Maker," the Skaal mumbled. "I pray to you this day. Move my feet so that I may be swift. Guide my hands so that I strike with assurance. Show me the way so my aim be true." Gharrok's chest tightened as the prayer spilled from him. "Should I fall this day, I ask for your forgiveness, and hope you will let me dance among the skies with my ancestors…"

* * *

A wave crashed over the side of the hull, rocking the longboat precariously. The screams of gulls filled the air as they circled overhead. For an ocean named the Sea of Ghosts, it was awfully mundane.

"Are we ready?" a voice hissed. Sparks flew as another sack was thrown upon flames. Smoke rose up into the clear sky, baiting the prey into the trap. When the intended target arrived, they would encounter a ship that looked like it had been raided and put to the flame. Gharrok and sever other Nightblades lay on the deck and down below, pretending to be dead. The remaining Nightblades were hiding on boats around the point, and would attack the target ship from the other side, once the signal had been given. A simple pincer manoeuvre, but there were risks. Many would die if Ralof and the remaining Stormcloaks were late.

"I see them!" Jarrad whispered back.

"Make ready, comrades." Gharrok said quietly. "Remember, a headband means a friend!" several of the Nightblades were dressed as Imperials and sailors, a trick to make the attack seem realistic. If a ship _had_ been attacked, there'd be bodies from all sides of the conflict. The sounds of shouting grew louder as the ship approached. The Trajan was a ship bound for Skyrim's shores, delivering much needed supplies for the Imperial Legion garrisoned in the Province. Medicine, weapons, armour, metal, alcohol, food, all things that were needed to fight a war.

"Haul in and drop anchor," A voice boomed over the commotion. "Prepare a boarding party!"

* * *

The two hulls scrapped against each other as several wooden boards were dropped onto the deck.

"I do not understand what the Kynareth's Wind is doing here, sir." A voice said as several pairs of feet jumped onto the deck. "Isn't she part of Classis Morrowindis? Why is she this far west?" The soldiers stepped over the 'corpses' that littered the deck, seeing if the ones dressed as Imperials were still alive. Jarrad had taught them how to feign death before they left.

She still has Imperial colours flying, so that means that she was not stolen." Another voice added. Gharrok thanked Ralof's last minute decision to change the flag to avoid suspicion. Stendarr knows what would of happened to them if they had not. "Search for the captain and any survivors. We need to know what happened here." The feet explored the 'Imperial' bodies in turn, each looking for markings of rank. One of the soldiers sneered as he stood over Gharrok's body.

"Looks like you finally met justice, eh Stormcloak?" the man teased, digging his boot into Gharrok's side. "I hope the sharks eat you, although they do not eat rotten meat!" Gharrok had couldn't retort or change his expression, only stare blankly off to the side. He'd remember the man's face, so he could put Icefang into it.

"Please help me..." Jarrad groaned, breathing raspy breaths. Jarrad was the one responsible for signalling the attack, and this part of the strategy.

"Mara, a survivor!" an Imperial gasped, kneeling down by his side. The soldier uncorked a small of red fluid and poured into Jarrad's mouth. "You are going to be okay. My name is Prius, of Classis Conmercium. Can you-"

"Get the captain boy, before I die!" Jarrad wheezed, spitting out the potion onto the Imperial's body. The Imperial left him, crossing back onto the Trajan. It wasn't long before another set of feet hit the deck of the Kynareth's Wind. The captain was an old Redguard with a gyp in his leg, hobbling up to the bow.

"Captain Trallod Maullin of the Trajan, Classis Conmercium," The Redguard knelt down next to Jarrad.

"Captain Jarrad of the Kynareth's Wind, Classis Morrowindis." Captain Trallod took of his helmet so that his old ears could hear Jarrad better.

"What happened here?"

"We were to ordered to sail a shipment of jewels to Anvil, but a storm blew us off course. The-" Jarrad began to cough violently, a blood, actually bull's, not human, rolled down his face and onto the old man.

"Stay with me," Trallod hummed, putting another healing potion past Jarrad's lips. The old man helped Jarrad into a sitting position against the railing. Gharrok's hand inched to the dagger on his belt. "What happened after the storm?" Jarrad groaned in pain, clawing at the deck as if it were dirt.

"We… The Kynareth's Wind was badly damaged, so we had to go to the nearest port for repairs. But Dawnstar, what we found was..." Jarrad's shaky hands reached for the knapsack on his belt. From inside it he pulled out a hew pages of crumpled paper. "This _must_ get to General Tullius! The Stormcloaks, we found out what they were planning and killed us. This is the key to stopping them!" The Redguard's eyes widened, the weight of what he was being told sinking in.

"You have gone above and beyond your duty," Trallod nodded, patting Jarrad on the shoulder. "We will get you home alive. I guarantee it." The old man too the sheets of paper from him and began to read aloud. "Skyrim…belongs to the-!"

"The Nords," Jarrad hissed, his mouth curling into an evil smile as a knife was pushed into Trallod's throat. "Skyrim belongs to the Nords!" With those five words, the attack began.

* * *

Gharrok sat up and slashed his dagger at the man standing over him. The poor bastard could only look in a shocked surprise as his innards were spilled out in front of him. Gharrok threw the knife into the chest of an unarmoured sailor, killing him instantly. The Most of the Empire's men on the deck were killed in similar fashions, unprepared, caught off guard.

"Hooks!" Gharrok bellowed as he pulled back to the far side of the deck. Nightblades from below deck thundered upstairs, carrying the weapons of the disguised Nightblades. Lengths of ropes with grappling hooks were thrown across the two ships, binding them together. In Gharrok's bare hands he began to conjure up a ball of fire. He had to use his friends for cover as arrows whizzed to and fro. The Skaal grunted with exertion as the fire was thrown skywards. Spheres of purple crackled in his hands as he charged up bolts of lightning. Once the fireball had reached its apex, he fired. Rolland Broken-Blade, Gharrok's father had taught him that when a lightning bolt and a fireball collided, they made a large explosion. The huge boom and cloud of black smoke that followed the collision was the signal used to call Ralof and the rest of the reinforcements to battle. Gharrok slipped the heavy steel shield over his arm and drew Icefang, ready to join the fray. Had he turned a moment later, the Skaal would have been killed. A deckhand, presumably the son of one of the Trajan's sailors, charged at him with a knife. The tiny blade bounced effortlessly off his shield. Gharrok swung at the arm with the shield, disarming him and shattering the wrist. The boy howled in pain, grabbing his arm. Gharrok could kill him with ease, but what kind of warrior would he be if he killed a boy? The Skaal was about to knock him out with a smack of Icefang's side, when a sword pushed through the lad's chest.

"Look alive!" the killer, a Nightblade shouted over the chaos of battle. "We need to-" The woman's head was taken clean off the body by a huge battleaxe, wielded by an even huger Orc. The Skaal's immediate thought was to run and hide. However this was impossible on the small ship.

"Die, rebel scum!" The Orsimer bellowed as he charged at Gharrok. Fear and adrenaline was flooding his veins, the only things that kept him moving. A swing for his head was blocked by Gharrok's shield, but the weight of the blow sent him staggering. Gharrok wasn't used to the rocking of the boat, which only added to the chaos of the fight. The Orc roared as he swung again with his vicious axe. Icefang met the challenge of it. The smaller axe was tossed away, its purpose of parrying the attack done.

"It is over for you!" The Skaal ducked underneath a swing and rolled towards Icefang. Gharrok had grown up climbing trees, spelunking in caves, and climbing mountains, acrobatics was second nature to him. But a huge wooden shield coated in steel threw off his balance. Gharrok lay flat on his back, the wind taken forced from his chest. The Orc stomped his metal boot on Gharrok's chest, raising the battleaxe over his head.

"Say hello to Malacath for-" An arrow thudded into his chest, causing the Orc to drop his weapon only inches from Gharrok's head. The second arrow planted itself in his throat. The Orc stumbled backwards and overboard. The Skaal looked in the direction of the shooter to see Jarrad lowering his bow, giving Gharrok a knowing nod. Jarrad was a skilled marksman who had saved countless Nightblade lives with his shots. Gharrok had been among the saved on more than one occasion. The Nightblades were being cut down one after another by the archers on the other deck. The Trajan was a much larger ship, so the archers on her deck could easily pick off the Stormcloaks. Gharrok looked along the line of the coast where the other ship had been hiding. They had come around the point and were making their way over to the Trajan. But the sail was only half unfurled, and the oars were rowing slowly. Gharrok glared at the ship. Why was Ralof taking his time? Did he mean to betray him?

"Snow-Hammer," A Nightblade panted, his body drenched in blood. "We have beat them back!" The Imperials were retreating from the Kynareth's Wind, chassed by the battle cries of the Stormcloak troops. Gharrok turned to the ship, his eyes widening.

"Take aim…" the bosun ordered. Dozens of bows and crossbows were raised.

"Get down!" Gharrok shouted. "They are-"

"FIRE!"

* * *

The bodies of the Nightblades fell to the deck of the ship. The Stormcloak numbers were decimated by arrow and bolt. Those who were lucky to survive took shelter from incoming fire. Gharrok's shield was hailed by arrows as he stood against them. An arrow found its way into his side, and a bolt into his leg. The Skaal Roared in pain, dropping to one knee. The archers on deck dropped their bows and leapt over onto the Stormcloak ship, charging in to finish the wounded raiders.

"Defensive positions," Gharrok ordered. "Form a line!" the Stormcloaks charged the Imperials on deck, allowing Gharrok to retreat. The Skaal limped for Jarrad, who took cover from archers. Gharrok buried Icefang on the ship's rail so his hand could be free to heal himself.

"You look worse for wear," Jarrad smirked, shooting an arrow.

"Not the time!" Gharrok hissed, pulling the arrow and bolt from his body. "Those archers are tearing us apart, take them out!" Jarrad peaked his head up, only to jerk it sideways as an arrow thudded into the deck.

"Marlo is dead, and Katal is injured!" Jarrad retorted. "I am the only archer you have!" Gharrok saw the injured archer and crawled over to him. A vial of healing potion was fished from his rucksack and forced into the archer's mouth. Gharrok to the time to take some potion himself.

"Talos, yes." Gharrok sighed in relief, the pain numbing in his body. Gharrok rejoined Jarrad and went on the offensive. The Imperial archers knew that Jarrad was hiding here, and were keen on shooting him down. A second too long looking for a target could mean an arrow in the face.

"I have fore sail, take the one on aft!" Jarrad said, nocking an arrow into his bowstring. "Now!" Jarrad and Gharrok stood up in succession, taking aim. Jarrad's arrow struck his target in the gut, sending hurtling onto the deck below. The spikes of ice that Gharrok launched it their target with such force that he was sent flying into the murky waters of the sea.

"Good shooting!" Jarrad beamed. "Those two bastards were stopping me from hitting the rest of their crew." Gharrok flung some throwing knives at the Imperials on the deck to aid the struggling Nightblade line.

"Captain, we need help!" A Nightblade pleaded. "The line-" they were cut off as a sword went clean through their heart. Icefang was in his hands before his knew it. The Skaal leapt down the stairs, raising his shield in front of him.

"For Skyrim!" Gharrok bellowed as he crashed into the Imperial forces. Despite his injuries he fought on, Gharrok had no choice. There would be no surrender today. Death or victory. With their leader by their side, the Nightblades battled doubly hard. A huge Imperial donned in heave plate armour strode across the gangplank, sword him hand.

"Kill them all, I want their leader brought to me in chains!" the man roared. A Breton soldier staggered up to him, pleading for help. The poor man had lost his arm and was bleeding out. The Imperial helped the Breton by throwing him into the sea. This man, a commander amongst his peers, struck fear into the hearts of the Nightblades.

"Stand firm!" Gharrok cried. "We can take these bastards!" Gharrok's rallying cries were what separated him from the rest. The Imperial roared, drawing his sword.

"Stormcloak!" the Legate bellowed, pointing the blade at him. "You have fought bravely, and for that you have my respect. But now the battle is over, you are outnumbered and your men are wavering. There is time yet for you to yield!"

"Well feel free!" Gharrok spat, glaring at him. "I would see have my House eradicated before I yielded to a Thalmor whore!" The Nightblades roared in response, jeering at the Imperials.

"How many more must die for this useless rebellion?" the Legate replied as the pair circled each other. The battle seemed to cease, all intent on watching the duel.

"Just one!" Gharrok roared. The Skaal jumped at the mast, springing off of it into the air and bringing Icefang down on his foe.

* * *

The Skaalish war axe bounced off the Legate's shield. Gharrok spun away from a potential riposte. Gharrok's eyes looked at the man intensely, trying to find any micro-movement that could give away his attack. Gharrok swung for the Legate's sword arm, but his attack was parried. The Legate brought his shield into Gharrok's unprotected face, sending him staggering. His world went awry as pain flooded his senses. A swift kick in the loins brought a gasp of agony from Gharrok's lips. The Skaal was only just able to deflect the supplementary slash. The pair backed away from each other, catching a breath. Gharrok winced as the numbing fire of a strike to his nether region flooding in. This duel was unfair to begin with. The Imperial was fresh and wore thick steel armour and helm. Gharrok, on the other hand, was only wearing chainmail and scaled leather. The Skaal was wounded and tired. This was a fight that Gharrok knew he might not win. Even still, he fought on. What greater honour was there than to die with a blade in your hand? They clashed again, their weapons and shields locked together. The Imperial head-butted Gharrok in the nose, causing him to flinch and tear up. Those tears were soon ejected as the Skaal caught an armoured kneecap in the gut. The Skaal groaned as he doubled over. The boat rocked as the Legate went for the killing blow, the strike glancing past him. Even a knee in the gut like that was crippling for Gharrok, chainmail did little to protect him. Gharrok spun around him and sliced Icefang along the man's body as he went. The Legate roared in pain, the cold bite of Icefang seeping through him.

"Enchantments are a coward's weapon!" roared he. "Legionaries, attack!" the battle quickly resumed around them, the Nightblades trying their best to resist the numbers that flooded over them. The two combatants were in the thick of conflict again. Icefang found its way home into the Legate's gut but to no avail, his armour was barely dented. The sword had a greater reach over the axe, which cut along Gharrok's shield arm. Gharrok grunted in shock, but was quick to retaliate. The Skaal punched him in the jaw with his shield. The Legate dropped to his knees as a tooth flew from his mouth. Pain flared all over Gharrok's body. He wanted to stop fighting, he _needed_ time to rest and recover. If he even stopped for a second, the battle would be over. If he fell, the Nightblades would surrender and Ralof would rout before he even joined the fight. Icefang was aimed to cave through the helm, but stopped. The Imperial had sliced through his thigh. Gharrok winced as he backed away. Gharrok looked around him. The deck was slippery with the blood of Nord, Imperial and Breton alike. The Stormcloaks that remained were fighting the Imperials one at a time, struggling to stay alive. Arrows from Empire marksmen were ceaseless. Jarrad could not compete with them, saving what ammunition he had.

"I'm out!" The archer shouted as he reached into his quiver for another arrow. Katal ripped the quiver by his hip off and hobbled towards him. The violent rocking of the boat did not make it any easier on him, especially with his injuries.

"Here, use min-" Katal started, but was cut off as an arrow found its home in his throat. Jarrad flinched away from the man as he lay on the deck, desperately clawing at his neck, gasping like a fish out of water.

"We will meet in Sovngarde, my friend." Jarrad mumbled, taking the quiver from Katal. Jarrad had to look away as he drowned in his own blood, a fire of vengeance burning within him. Each of his shots were true, taking down the Empire's archers so that no more of his kin would suffer the same fate.

"BRACE!" a voice shouted over the chaos. The portside deck of the Trajan exploded in splinters as a longboat rammed right into it. The rest of the Stormcloak Nightblades poured onto the Trajan's deck, stemming the seemingly endless flow of Empire bodies thrown at he Kynareth's Wind. The Legate roared in rage, as Gharrok sprinted at him. The Skaal's reckless attack was his downfall. The Legate, for all his intimidating roars, was calm and collected. He had anticipated Gharrok's strike and countered, ducking under the axe's swing and slicing through Gharrok's boot. The Skaal cartwheeled forward, landing on the deck heavily. The impact had knocked the wind from his lungs, and added to the extreme amounts of pain he was in. the Legate kicked him in the gut to stop him from rising. Everything was on fire. His body bled from the cuts and arrows he had endured. The Imperial jumped onto the shield that was on Gharrok's arm. The Skaal screamed in pain as he felt his shoulder bone shatter and rip from the socket. The man let his sword hang by his side, almost baiting Gharrok to attack.

' _If I am to die this day, I shall take this bastard with me!'_ Gharrok thought as he swung Icefang at the Legate's exposed crotch. The Imperial sneered as he saw the incoming attack. No shield or sword met Icefang, rather a boot did. The Legate kicked Icefang from the Skaal's hands. Gharrok could only watch in horror as his beloved weapon spun from his hand. The treasured axe embedded itself in the mast of the ship, far out of reach.

"Now you die!" the Legate glowered, bringing his sword down into Gharrok's chest. Gharrok rolled away from the stab, the blade bouncing off of the tough wooded deck. Gharrok hissed in pain as his mangled body was exerted to preform as it was. The shield that hung from his broken arm blocked several swings at his body, more by chance than skill. As Gharrok exposed his front, he launched a bolt of lightning at the Legate. His aim was off, due to severe head trauma, and instead of electrocuting the man, he hit his sword and sent it flying into the ocean. The Imperial didn't even flinch at being disarmed, throwing off his shield.

"I will just have to kill you the old fashioned way then!" The man knelt over Gharrok's body, snarling as he brought his fists into the Skaal's face. Gharrok covered his face with his one working arm, but it did little to stop the blows. Each one rattled his brain in his skull, blood spilling from his mouth and nose. Gharrok was on the verge of blacking out, his cone of vision shrinking. Whether or not this was death, he did not know. With what he was experiencing, death might not have been such a bad substitute. The Legate grew tired of this and picked the Skaal up by the collar of his mail. The horrible sound of metal grating against wood was heard as Gharrok was dragged over to the side rail. The Imperial grunted as he heaved the limp body of Gharrok up to throw him off. With Gharrok's one good hand, he clung desperately to the ship. The Legate strangled the Skaal, his armoured hands crushing his windpipe. Gharrok gasped for air, desperately trying to motivate his dangling shield arm to move. If he let go of the rail to fight, he would be thrown overboard. If he clung on, he would be choked to death. There was no alternative at this point.

"Jarrad!" Gharrok gasped, his lips turning blue. The archer's head whipped around to see his friend's strife. Jarrad reached over his shoulder for an arrow, but-

"I'm out!?" Jarrad gasped in disbelief. He would never make it time if he took up the sword to engage the Imperial. With no shot either, it was hopeless. His eyes darted to the dead Katal. An arrow was still embedded in his throat. The archer grimaces as he ripped it from the body of his cousin, nocking it into his bow.

"Only have one shot…" Jarrad mumbled, aiming underneath the Legate's arm. The gap in the plate armour left a clear shot to the heart, if his aim was right.

' _This is it,,_ ' Gharrok thought as he struggled. _'I will never see my family again. Mother, Father, Meela. Agr̃o. I shall never again climb the Seven Thousand Steps, or see the autumn trees of Ivarstead. I wont see those elves again. I would have dearly liked to have gotten to known them better again. Eladän and Aüriel…'_ Time seemed to slow as Jarrad loosed the shot. The projectile spun as it hurtled towards the Imperial. The Legate's eye twitched as he saw Jarrad take aim. When the bolt was loosed, he heaved the Skaal's body up and in front of him. Gharrok's vision came back as oxygen flooded his deprived lungs. But the sensation of life was only for a second. His body arched forward as the arrow pierced through him. Gharrok staggered back, looking down at the arrowhead sticking through his chest. The Legate sneered, picking up his shield and returning to the fight. Jarrad could only watch in horror as the Skaal went limp and tumbled into the abysmal ocean…


	15. Chapter 15: Lady in the Solar

Magnus' mid-morning rays danced over closed eyelids. They squinted open, rolling away from the light. The Altmer pondered her dreams as she had during the night.

' _Was it just a dream?'_ Aüriel thought, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. _'The visions, it seemed so real.'_ She slipped on her boots and heavy robes before taking the steps down into the main hall.

'Look who finally decided to get up,' someone teased. She ignored them, serving herself some gruel. The slit in the tower overlooked the harbour. Ships sailed in and out of the bay, carrying goods all over the world.

'Righto, let us just get this over with.' The commander of the outpost instructed, reading a list. The Elves stood to attention, lining up against the wall. 'The Legion have reported that raiding in the area has increased drastically. Evidence of the attack patterns shows organised strategy, not just random banditry.' The Justiciars and Thalmor soldiers looked to one another. This news was concerning, such raids could potentially change the power of the Empire in Skyrim. 'The evidence of magic leads to the theory of vampires, or Falmer. However the lack of any bodies, bar Legion soldiers, suggests that these could be Nords.'

'Nords, sir?' A young Justiciar asked. The older Altmer shot him looks, silencing him.

'Yes, Rimiar, Nords. They do inhabit this country.' The Elves snickered at the youth's ignorance. 'Anyway. These Nords could potentially be related to the Stormcloak insurgents, which is why we are obligated to investigate. Justiciars have the authority to arrest and question any suspicious individuals. For the time being, we will increase patrols around the city and surrounding areas.'

* * *

A Bosmer walked by her side, strolling through the streets. Aüriel stifled a yawn, her sleeves becoming home to the expression of weariness.

'Trouble sleeping?; Eladän asked, his quiver bouncing to his pace.

'I had troubling dreams,' Aüriel nodded. 'I felt as if yesterday, something bad happened. Something to a friend.' The Bosmer raised an eyebrow, frowning.

'I had same such dreams. But who do we both know that could be a friend?' Having grown up in separate countries, it was unlikely that it was someone from their childhood. Both had acquaintances in the Dominion, but none that they would consider friends. What of the inhabitants of Skyrim? There was no Nords that they both were close to. Skaal however…

'Though I know not what they mean. Dreams are the realm of Vaernima, a realm I have little knowledge of. What are your thoughts?'

'You are asking the wrong person,' Eladän scoffed. 'I am a hunter, not a scholar!' Many of the Nords of the capitol, though loyal to their Jarl, sympathised with Ulfric for defending his homeland. It wasn't uncommon for Thalmor soldiers and agents to be hissed at and berated as they walked the streets.

'How the mighty hath fallen,' Eladän sighed, glaring at a particularly angry drunkard who was yelling at them. 'This is absolute skeever shit!'

'What do you mean?' Aüriel asked.

'The Dominion has a three-strike strike system, but they overlook it when we seem to slip up. And now we have to patrol this cesspool for months!' Calling the capitol of a country such slander got the prince evil looks from those who heard.

'The strike system only works for drunk and disorderly, or harming a innocent. I directly disobeyed a superior's order.' Eladän looked at her, shrugging.

'So what? That bastard was out of line.'

'And when I told you what he did you threw Ancano out of a window, _after_ you were caught fighting with Estormo!'

'Estormo owed me money!' Eladän argued. 'And Ancano is a cunt, he deserved it.' Whilst Aüriel agreed, he was their superior. They had no choice but to obey him. Aüriel knew that Ancano could be court marshalled for what he did in the Reach, and was looking to tie up any loose ends. Dishonouring her and the prince by putting them on street duty was certainly was the way to do it one thing Elves valued above all else was honour. 'I cannot wait until I am back in the Migrant Forests. _That_ is where I am needed!'

'What makes you say that?' Aüriel asked. There was a look of grim determination on his face, like a man with vendetta in his heart.

'Surely you have heard the rumours?' Eladän hissed. 'Your kind purging Valenwood? It's true.' Aüriel gasped, her delicate eyes widening in shock. Before she could even retort such an accusation, Khajiit approached them.

'Greetings, friends,' the Khajiit purred. He showed off a ring of gold on his finger. The symbol of the Dominion Eagle was printed on its surface. Only agents of he Thalmor wore them. As a Justiciar, Aüriel had one. Eladän was just a soldier, despite his nobility. 'This One brings word from our Lady Elenwen.' Both Wood and High Elf were confused as to why one of the Catfolk would be assisting the Aldmeri Dominion. Elsweyr was part of that confederation Eras ago, but the lands were in disarray, kingdoms of old, Anequina and Pelletine, were squabbling amongst each other. Their current association with the Empire was largely unknown.

'What does she want?' Eladän raised an eyebrow. Although Elenwen was the Thalmor Emissary for Skyrim, she rarely dealt with the Justiciars; their duties were usually left to Rulindil.

'Khajiit was told only to tell you of your summons, nothing more.' The cat answered. 'May your road lead you to warm sands.' The Khajiit left their sight, off to do more work for his lord. Aüriel's hazel eyes were quick to go over the neat penmanship, her eyes did little to hide her shock.

'News from your homeland?' Eladän asked.

'Nay, but from the Lady Elenwen herself! She wishes for a private audience with us.'

* * *

The Bosmer and Altmer were swift in their departure of Skyrim's capital. Though they would normally have walked the short hike, they took their steeds from the stable. It was unwise to keep the Thalmor Emissary waiting. The Embassy was an ordinary building, however the intimidating fortifications around it made for a hostile look. As soon as the prince and lady were on the grounds, a fellow Justiciar escorted them to the door of Elenwen's Solar.

'Wait here,' the Justiciar grunted, slamming the door in their faces. Aüriel didn't seem phased by the man's behaviour. Her companion, however, was outraged.

'Justiciar Rulindil,' Eladän tutted as he kicked his boot around in the snow. 'What a cunt.' Aüriel frowned at the Bosmer's description. His behaviour was that of a haughty highborn noble, exactly what he was.

'Lady Elenwen's right hand man, if I am not mistaken.' The young woman shivered as a snowy gust blew through the courtyard. She pulled her hood closer to her face sheltering what warmth she produced. 'A ruthless man if I were ever to meet one! They say... They say he actually takes joy in the suffering of others!'

'Makes you wonder why the Nords hate us.' Eladän chuckled, taking of his helmet. 'How in Julianos are the Nords able to survive this damned cold? It is-' The heavy doors to the Solar opened a cracked. A furry face with whiskers popped out.

'The Lady Elenwen will see you now,' the Khajiit handmaiden announced. 'Please, wipe your feet as you come through.' The maiden led them through the building to the door of Elenwen's office. She offered Eladän kind and flirtations looks. the prince took no notice however, no doubt she was hoping he might take a liking to her and give her money. From within the office a heated argument was playing out. The maiden indicated that they were to wait, lest they be punished for interrupting them.

'They are not ready!' a muffled voice from within argued. It sounded like Justiciar Rulindil, the one from earlier.

'I beg to differ,' a man's voice protested. He sounded younger, kinder. Aüriel let out a light gasp, recognising who the voice belonged to. 'Prince Eladän may not be the one to inherit the throne, but he is a capable warrior. I have seen lady Aüriel using her magic. The girl has great potential that must be used. To let it be spent on patrolling streets is a waste.' The Khajiit's tail swayed idly, waiting patiently for the meeting to conclude. Eladän, ever the hunter, couldn't help but stare.

'Did you not read the reports? That bitch _clearly_ disobeyed orders from her her superior!' Aüriel frowned at being called such a name. such was the life of a female Justiciar on the frontier. The locals hated you, your allies resented you, and those who were your friends were often outcasts too.

'The good mane of the Thalmor is put to shame with the hideous acts that are committed by Justiciar Ananco,' the kinder voice responded. 'It alludes me as to why he has not been dishonoured! Were it any other of the Thalmor or our soldiers, they would be in chains!'

'Irrelevant. and what of the cannibal prince? Did you not hear of his behaviour? How he attacked his superiors?'

'A cannibal!?' Eladän hissed, reaching for his dagger. 'Why I oughta...'

'What Prince Eladän did was justified, because-'

'Oh please,' Rulindil scoffed. 'Do tell me how acts of treason can be justified!' the argument went on. Aüriel and the Khajiit maid stood patiently, whilst the Bosmer fumed, his hand gripping the hilt of his dagger so hard his knuckles were white.

'Should we wait for Lady Elenwen in the parlour?' Aüriel whispered. She felt like she was eavesdropping on the superiors' meeting.

'This is not a rare occurrence,' the maid responded. 'Please do not concern yourself.'

'While I do not condone his actions, those of Ananco should be addressed!' the kind voice retorted. 'The killing of innocent civilians and executing prisoners of war is unethical!' there was a pause as the voice took a drink. 'Are we not supposed to watch over and protect the Nords? I doubt butchering them qualifies as such!'

'Our duty is to root out and crush the worship of the false god, Talos.' A female voice interjected. Her tone was full of superiority and snobbishness. 'To do that we need fresh leaders on the front.'

'My lady,' Rulindil said, clearly surprised that she was against him. 'I do not question your judgment, but I think you put too much faith in the unworthy. Please, reconsider what you are doing!'

' _You_ put too much faith in people who do not deserve the honour of leading our soldiers!' the kind male retorted.

'Enough!' the lady snapped. It was like a whip cracking through the air. The maid scrunched her face up, like she was being struck. Even the rebellious Eladän flinched. 'Rulindil I appreciate your concern, but I have made my decision. Our relations with Valenwood are fragile as it is. We cannot afford to lose them by tossing aside the prince. As well as that, Aüriel Dawnstone shows promise. Let her prove her worth.' The handmaiden, realising Eladän was royalty, practically swooned onto him. Her furry paws snaked their way around his neck. The Bosmer shrugged her away, not caring for such things. 'We shall discuss this at another time. We have guests.' The Khajiit maid leapt to open the doors to Elenwen's office.

'M'lady,' purred she. 'Might I presen-'

'Uncle!' Aüriel gasped, running into one of the Justiciar's arms.

'Hello, my dear.' Ondolemar smiled, embracing his niece lovingly. 'You look wonderful, how have you been since I last wrote you?'

'Very well, thank you. Haafingar's weather has been fair enough, and it has been a nice respite from going out into the wilds.' Elenwen furrowed his brow slightly at the affection the two held for each other. Yes, they were kin, but to act so informally in front oh someone who demanded huge amounts of respect was unheard of.

'Lady Elenwen,' Eladän nodded his head in respect, taking his side by Aüriel and Ondolemar. 'I am honoured to have been received by you.'

'The honour is all mine, your grace.' Elenwen replied, bowing respectfully to him. 'I welcome you both to my Solar.'

'I am afraid that pleasantries will have to wait,' Rulindil said. 'As we speak the Empire is losing another trading fleet.' Aüriel's eyes widened at this fact.

'You knew of this yet you did not intervene?' Eladän asked, crossing his arms. He was clearly unimpressed.

'The Empire should be able to watch over their own, but that is what I was getting to. In recent months, the number of attacks on both Imperial and Dominion caravans in Skyrim has risen exponentially.' On a table before them was a map of the Province. Rulindil nodded towards it with disdain. 'In particular, these attacks are largely focused in the Reach, the west of Hjarlmarch, the Sea of Ghosts, and particularly in Haafingar.' Eladän and Aüriel shot each other a quick glance. Was Gharrok responsible for this? Surely not, he had told them that he was no more than a spy.

'War makes the roads a dangerous place,' the Bosmer dismissed, clearly trying to play down the situation. 'No doubt it is just bandits, and the Forsworn.' It was Onodolemar who retorted that statement.

'While the Forsworn are organised, the evidence that we have gathered at the remains of the caravans points to others.' A servant brought forward a case and laid several items on the table. A topknot of blond hair, several arrowheads, a large body wrap, and a necklace. 'Blonde hair, grown only by Nords. Steel and iron arrowheads, unordinary for your average brigand or Reachman.' Lady Elenwen frowned, her mind going to many conclusions. 'A blue scarf. Worn by a very particular group of individuals. Finally, amulets of Talos, the heretic god.'

'I think that only one conclusion can come from this," Ondolemar said. 'This is the work of the Stormcloaks.' The four Elves were silent. This evidence was both overwhelming and concerning. For the rebels in the west to be active in the east of the Province was bad news. The Imperials could not hold them back as they thought they could.

'This news is… not good.' Eladän admitted. 'The Legion _must_ reinforce their hold on the Province before this rebellion can truly begin.'

'We are in agreement on that.' Elenwen nodded. 'And that is why you two have been summoned. While only one of you is highborn, I believe that both of you can be groomed for leadership. You are both skilled warriors, one thing that is needed in these dark times.' Lady Elenwen approached the young girl, placing her hands on her shoulders. Rulindil and Ondolemar both looked at each other with stunned shock, they'd _never_ seen the lady show such affection. 'I remember when you and Prince Eladän first came to this land. You were still wet behind the ears, I thought this barbaric land would claim you both. Yet here you are. A fine young woman. I would very much like to see that when I am gone from this world you replace my role as Emissary.'

'Thank you my Lady,' Aüriel blushed. 'I am glad that our previous grievances-'

'Are not forgiven!' Rulindil interrupted. 'These runts are not deserving of leadership of the mighty Thalmor! For Arkay's sake, they still cry for their mother's tit!' The younger Elves looked at the man responsible for the outburst in shock and with insult. He would have continued, but a glare from Elenwen silenced him.

'Prince Eladän is nineteen, and Aüriel eighteen,' Ondolemar said. 'By the laws of Mer, Men, and Divines, they are adults. Our generation cannot sit on the throne forever, the next generation must learn to take our place.'

'Bah!' Rulindil spat. 'Tavern whores are better captains then these runts! I have taken shits that had more mettle then the tree fucker!' Eladän had reached his limit with the insults. In one swift movement, his bow was drawn and an arrow aimed at Rulindil's heart.

'Insult me one more time, I dare you!' Eladän snarled. Onodolemar put a protective arm in front of his niece, ready to cast spells of protection.

'Oh, how scared am I!' Rulindil wailed, his cries full of sarcasm. 'Go ahead, shoot me. My family's position in the Aldmeri courts would see your forests burn!' The senior Justiciar bore down on the Bosmer, bearing his teeth like a sabre cat. 'You are nothing compared to my, boy. I have seen things that would leave you quivering in fear. I have seen the dead walk again, I have seen men have their throats ripped out by sirens they were infatuated by. I have watched good friends become cattle for vampires. My own father had is soul sucked out by a wispmother before my very eyes! I would rather bend my knee to Ulfric Stormcloak than let _my_ Embassy be taken over by a tree fucking, cannibal like-'

'Silence!' Elenwen snapped. Her voice cracked like a whip, startling the men and young girl in her company. This woman was always calm and collected in her dealings and little drove her to anger. She glared at her assistant and the prince, who both reluctantly backed off. 'Auri-El as my witness, your infighting will be the death of us! There will not need to be a rebellion, if we destroy ourselves before they do. Rulindil, my decision is final. You will learn to respect the prince, or I will be powerless to save you from the consequences.' The Wood Elf smirked, happily putting his bow back over his shoulder. 'And _you_ , Prince Eladän, will never raise bow nor blade in my presence again. A prince you may be, but you are at _my_ command. Is that clear?' she did not bother for him to reply, turning her back to them to look out the window. 'You begin at first light in the morrow.'


End file.
